Under Investigation
by dusty violet
Summary: Peter and Neal are working on cases as usual - but Peter has his eye on Neal for different reasons. He's not "fine" like he claims to be. Takes place during S2, possible spoilers. Peter/Neal friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Neal woke with a start, lurching upright, one hand clutching the bed sheets to his bare chest. His wide eyes surveyed the room for any imminent threat before dropping to his own body. He could see it quivering faintly, in rhythm with the thudding of his heart against his ribs. It was another moment before he realized what had happened. He shivered and exhaled loudly. _Another bad dream_, he thought to himself. _At least I didn't scream this time_.

Lazily tossing the covers aside, he swung his legs over the side of the bed - first the right one, then the left - and got up. He walked slowly towards the bathroom, piecing together the remnants of his dream as he went. He recalled a faceless sea of orange jumpsuits closing in on him, waving their guns around in the air… he felt the harsh, stinging buzz of his tracking anklet against his skin, as if it were a shock collar, if he considered stepping outside his prescribed two-mile radius… he saw the blood seeping from his chest, staining the antique Bible crimson as he frantically realized it had been not been thick enough to save him this time… he heard Fowler's menacing laugh as the plane burst explosively into flames, taking with it the woman he loved. _All of my fears in one dream_, he realized. _How convenient_. Having reached the sink, he turned the faucet as cold as it would allow and splashed the icy liquid on his face. He felt the stubble on his face as he wiped the droplets away from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Permitting himself a second to glance over his image in the mirror, he silently cursed his exhausted appearance. He was just about to reach for a hand towel when there was a firm knock on his door.

"Yeah, coming," Neal shouted, snatching the towel and turning to walk towards the door. He dried his face as he walked, glad that he knew his place well enough not to trip over anything. A black eye would certainly not help further the façade that he worked so hard to uphold.

He mustered up that trademark Caffrey grin of his and pulled the door open. "Good morning, Peter. Here for a cup of June's espresso, I presume?" Neal joked.

"Neal," Peter replied simply, with no humor in his tone. "We have work to do." He paused to study his consultant's appearance, taking in the unshaven face, dark bags under the light eyes, and the plaid pajama pants, one leg half-tucked sloppily into the electronic monitoring anklet. "You aren't ready."

"Ever the trained investigator. Nothing gets past you, does it?" Neal replied smartly. He looked over at the clock, seeing that it read 7:17 am. "You're early. Give me ten minutes."

Peter sighed. "Alright. But don't dawdle. This case has your name all over it."

Neal grinned and disappeared into the bathroom with a navy blue suit. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it. I have an alibi." He yelled through the closed door.

"You're not a suspect in this one. Already checked your anklet." Peter called back. He took a seat on the arm of Neal's sofa.

The con artist cracked the door open, sticking his face in the opening and fake pouting. "Peter, I'm disappointed! Where is the trust?"

"Will you hurry up, Neal?" Peter threw one of Neal's socks at the bathroom door to emphasize his point. The door closed again. "The case has your name all over it," he continued, "because it's one of the types of scheme you used to pull – money laundering."

"_Alleged_ money laundering!" Neal interjected. "Nicholas Halden was never convicted."

Peter scowled, to little effect through the closed door, so he continued to brief Neal on the case. "The bureau has been watching a Wall Street executive by the name of William Lyle. He was acquitted of insider trading two years ago because of insufficient evidence. We now think he has been blackmailing the people who brought that evidence against him. He's been demanding money from them and funneling it through multiple channels to make it appear like legitimate income. We just don't know where this income is going, or what he is using to blackmail the witnesses."

Neal emerged from the bathroom dressed in the suit, with only one sock on his foot. Peter noticed he had fixed his hair and shaved the stubble off his face. Neal picked up the other sock off the ground and sat at one of the kitchen chairs so he could put it on. "What is it you Feds always say? Follow the money?" He asked as he struggled with the remaining sock, the bulky anklet in his way.

"He hasn't been making any withdrawals from his personal or work accounts – not that we've been able to trace." Peter answered. "Need some help there?" He gestured to the anklet.

"Yeah, Peter, how about loosening it for me?" Neal countered sweetly.

"Right, so you can slip it off. Nice try." The agent shook his head. Then he saw it. "Is your… hand shaking?"

Neal quickly jerked the sock into place and stood up, placing his hands in his pockets. "Nope," he replied, a little too quickly. He bent over to slip his shoes on. "Let's go," he said, flashing a showy smile.

Peter knew not to press the issue. He had Neal's interest on this case, and he didn't want to risk distracting him with his tumultuous private life. He rose and followed Neal out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter pressed the unlock button on his key ring, the Taurus responding obediently with two short beeps. Unfortunately, Neal had grasped the handle at just the wrong moment, preventing the door from unlocking. Peter was already in the driver's seat, adjusting the rear-view mirror before he noticed his consultant standing awkwardly outside the car.

"Sorry," mumbled Neal after the agent reached over and pulled the passenger-side handle.

"Faster than picking the lock," Peter retorted as Neal got into the vehicle, head down, buckling his seat belt. He looked up at Peter with a mocking glare. "What, just because you're reformed doesn't mean it didn't cross your mind," the older man said in reply. He shifted the car into drive and it began to accelerate.

"You know me too well, Peter." Neal shook his head slightly and grinned.

The rest of the ride progressed mostly in comfortable silence, until they drove past a gourmet-looking coffee shop with an elegant striped awning. "Hey, Peter-"

"No, Neal," he interrupted. "We need to catch Lyle before his morning staff meeting. His employees are too afraid of him to talk – we need to get him alone." He kept his eyes on the road straight ahead while Neal sighed and gazed longingly at the coffee shop as it passed them by.

A few minutes later the pair arrived at the brokerage of Macmillan, Lyle, and Walters. Both men sized up the mammoth glass building in front of them – Peter looking for evidence, Neal looking for inconspicuous points of entry. _Old habits_, thought Neal, as he chuckled to himself. Peter looked over at him and rolled his eyes, saying nothing. He opened the glass door and stepped aside, motioning for Neal to enter first.

"Oh, no – age before beauty," Neal joked, reaching for the other door as his unamused partner stepped inside.

The lobby of the skyscraper was just as formidable as the exterior. Gray marble floors echoed their footsteps as they made their way to the receptionist's elaborately carved mahogany desk. Neal gave Peter an imperceptible nudge that said, _let me take the lead on this one_.

"Hello, miss… Foster" Neal read mellifluously from the name badge affixed to her gold silk blouse.

The receptionist looked up into Neal's eyes, struck almost instantaneously by his handsome face. "…Hi…" she cooed back dreamily before regaining control over her senses. "Please, call me Jacqueline." She blushed briefly at her lapse in professionalism. "How may I help you today, sir?"

"Well, Jacqueline," Neal answered, pausing on her name for effect, "my buddy and I, we were hoping to surprise our old business school pal William Lyle before we fly out to Hong Kong for a month-long business trip." It took all of Peter's restraint not to elbow his consultant in the ribs. But that would have blown their cover – and even though Neal was thoroughly enjoying himself, they needed to get inside. "Any chance we can go up to his office?"

"Mister Lyle is about to begin his morning staff meeting, I'm afraid," Jacqueline replied, looking genuinely sorry that she could not give the attractive man standing before her everything he desired. She stepped out from behind her desk to approach the two men. "If you care to leave your names with me, I will be sure to tell him you stopped by so he can look you up when you return next month."

Peter began to worry that Neal's plan wasn't going to work. However, he decided to give the con artist some more time. He was beginning to feel like he could trust him.

"I don't-" Peter began.

"Yes, of course! May I borrow a pen?" Neal cut his partner off.

As Jacqueline turned around to take a pen from the hand-blown glass jar on her desk, Neal skillfully lifted her electronic-access ID badge from her leather belt. The woman turned back around and handed Neal a shiny gold pen with a velvet grip and a pad of embossed paper with the brokerage's logo on it.

"Thanks, Jacqueline." Neal smiled warmly, taking the pen and pad, mentally preparing himself to sign Steve Tabernacle's name. But as he lowered the ball-point to the paper, his hand began to shake subtly. He knew the receptionist would miss it, but Peter would not. He clenched his fingers into a fist and extended them twice, finally scribbling the alias across the pad and handing it to Peter, who signed the name Robert Wheaton, and handed it back to Lyle's receptionist.

"We'll, uh, send a postcard," Peter said, nodding goodbye as Neal motioned for them to leave. "From Hong Kong!" He had to project his voice some to ensure that it carried as they walked out the door.

As soon as it had closed behind them, Peter turned to his consultant. "What the hell was that?" He questioned.

"Relax, Peter, I got her badge." Neal held it up for him to see, dangling it like a medal of honor. "We can go up the back staircase."

"I _saw_ you take her badge, Neal, I meant-"

"Come on, the meeting starts in eleven minutes!" He did not want to have to explain to his handler just what the hell _that_ was. It was better if he played dumb, assumed that Peter missed his lift, than to have that talk right now. He started towards the back entrance of the twenty-four story building, forcing Peter to put off his confrontation. For now, he would be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

Neal led the way to the back entrance of the building. The door itself was hidden from plain view behind a large, nearly overflowing forest green dumpster. On the wall to the right of the door was an electronic keypad, no doubt so the service staff could enter and exit without detracting from the ambience of the palatial front entrance. The digits 2, 4, 5, and 9 were worn from frequent use. Neal sighed – it was _so_ obvious – and tried entering a few combinations of those numbers before the door clicked, releasing the lock.

"Somebody needs to change their pass codes more often," Neal remarked to Peter as they walked through the door. Peter raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

The pair made their way quietly down the dingy corridor and into the service elevator. Neal reached out to press the button for the twenty-fourth floor, but Peter grabbed his wrist before he could touch it.

Neal looked at Peter, confused. "The head honcho's office is _always_ on the top floor, Peter. Someone with that much ambition needs to let everyone know how powerful he is."

"I know. I'm not questioning your logic-"

"Then what is it?" The consultant was impatient. He shook his arm free of the agent's grasp. His fingers trembled slightly as he shoved his hand into his pants pocket. The agent didn't appear to notice.

Peter reached in his pocket and pulled out a latex glove. He waved it in front of Neal's face for a moment until recognition kicked in. "Peter Burke's and Neal Caffrey's fingerprints shouldn't be found on the buttons in the service elevator – or anywhere in this building, for that matter. We don't have probable cause to be here. Steve Tabernacle and Robert Wheaton weren't invited in, either." Peter expounded. He pressed the button with a gloved finger and the elevator began to rise.

With a pleasant ding, the elevator doors finally opened on the top floor. The two men stepped out into the hall, looking around at their surroundings. The office suite on this floor was open and airy behind the fortress of the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Next to the door there was an electronic swipe pad which Neal recognized as a perfect fit to Jacqueline's electronic-access ID badge. He retrieved it from the left breast pocket of his suit jacket, swiping it with a graceful flick of his wrist. The light on the swipe pad turned from red to green, and it chirped twice. They were in.

The pair entered the glass fortress, striding briskly towards the figure by the window with his back facing them. He seemed to be shuffling papers around into manila folders, but it was hard to tell with the wide, black-suited shoulders blocking their view. As they approached, the man turned around, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

"Can I help you, gentlemen? This really isn't a good time," he said.

"Oh, we know," Neal replied, his tone insinuating.

"William Lyle? Agent Peter Burke, FBI," he recited, holding up his badge. "This is Neal Caffrey, my consultant. We need to ask you a few questions about your business."

"Agent Burke, the bureau has full access to all of my sensitive business information as part of its recent investigation. I know you haven't come back simply to hassle me further." Lyle responded diplomatically.

"No, mister Lyle, the bureau is not in the business of hassling; we are in the business of convicting money launderers." Peter was not going to allow a high-powered executive with some sort of god complex to intimidate him. "Tell me about the Thaynic Project."

"I'm afraid the details of that project are proprietary and cannot be released at this time. If word were to get out about the potential success of the project, well, you know what might happen then…" He trailed off with a glint in his eye.

"Let me guess: insider trading?" Neal answered, playing along. Lyle smiled.

"Well, gentlemen, my time is up; I must be going to my staff meeting. I will have my receptionist show you out. Goodbye, Agent Burke, mister Caffrey," Lyle nodded his farewell to each man. He turned and walked towards his desk, picking up the phone.

Something in Neal's gut told him he needed to get out, and now. He made eye contact with Peter, trying to convey telepathically that it was time to sneak away. He could hear Lyle on the phone – "Yes, Jacqueline? Please show Agent Burke and mister Caffrey out… Yes, _agent_… Surely you remember letting the FBI up to my office? ... No? ... Hmm, that's odd… Very well, please call security then."

By the time Lyle hung up the phone, the intruders were nowhere in sight. However, he had no time to investigate this himself. Trusting the matter to his security officers, he picked up his brown Italian leather briefcase and headed to his staff meeting.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter heard Lyle step into the elevator and the doors close. "Whew!" He sighed in relief, stepping out from behind the oversized modern sculpture. "That was too close, Neal. We are not doing that again!" His voice dropped to a loud whisper. "You made him suspicious!"

"I was merely reflecting his slick charisma back onto him where it belongs!" Neal whispered back as he stepped out from behind a tall ficus in a boxy terra cotta planter. Peter opened his mouth to reply, but Neal quickly clapped his hand over the agent's lips and pulled both of them back behind the sculpture just as he heard another two pairs of footsteps coming around the corner.

Two security guards emerged and began to search the office suite, looking for any signs of trouble. Peter and Neal stayed hidden behind the sculpture, but it was really only large enough to accommodate one man. Peter's back was pressed uncomfortably tightly against Neal's chest; he was pinned against the wall by his handler's body. The agent could feel Neal's heart beating hard and fast against his back, which surprised him. _Neal's certainly gotten out of trickier situations than this before_, he mused. _I have _got_ to figure out what is up with this kid_.

The silence was broken when first guard mumbled something about this being a big waste of his time. The other guard's radio crackled. "Twenty-fourth floor, Lyle's office. Nothing's out of place. I think our guys are long gone." The radio crackled once more before the fuzzy reply came through; "Alright, Dave, Mike, thanks. Head down to the twelfth floor and meet up with Aaron in accounting. He's locked himself out of his office again." With a chuckle, the footsteps faded away, and Peter and Neal were flooded with relief.

Peter decided to use the opportunity to confront his consultant. He turned around and put his hand to Neal's chest. His heart was still pounding rapidly. "Easy, kid. Take a deep breath, okay?"

Neal pushed the hand away, uncomfortable with his body's betrayal. "I'm fine, Peter," he said, avoiding the agent's gaze.

"There's no shame in being afraid, Neal," Peter replied with obvious effort, his attempt at comfort not coming naturally.

"I wasn't scared!" He looked up, indignant. "I'm a con man – con as in confidence."

"Then you should see a doctor about your tachycardia, it could be serious." Peter retorted sarcastically.

"Maybe I was just really turned on by you," Neal deflected with all the charm he could muster. He forced a cheesy wink at Peter, who snorted in disbelief.

"I've seen you with the ladies, Neal – you make them weak just by being in the same room." He paused. "Come on, I know your hands have been shaking all day." He gave his partner an expectant look.

"Caffeine withdrawal," he explained curtly. "You drove right past the coffee shop without even considering that I might need fuel."

"How rude of me," Peter sassed, throwing his arms up in frustration.

"Rude, indeed," Neal confirmed with a nod.

They were deadlocked. Peter did not know how to press his consultant any further towards opening up, and Neal did not want to let the agent shatter his denial.

Finally, Peter broke their silent staring contest. "Let's get copies of those documents Lyle left out before those goons realize we're still inside." He held his hand out for Jacqueline's badge. As Neal placed it in his partner's hand, Peter could feel the cold sweat on the con artist's palm. But having already lost that battle, he let it go, cataloging it for later. He swiped the badge and walked back into Lyle's office with his partner right behind him.

The papers were still in plain sight on Lyle's filing cabinet, sticking out of the manila folder at odd angles. The label on the folder read _Thaynic Project_. Peter photographed each page, one at a time, with his cell phone camera, as quickly as he could. There was no time to look at them now; he could analyze them later from the comfort of his bureau office.

However, Neal was looking at them over Peter's shoulder. Only some of the pages contained financial records. Most of them appeared to be surveillance notes. Someone was very careful not to say who _she_ was, but this woman was definitely under investigation. He wanted to read more, but his partner had finished taking pictures and was stashing the documents back into the folder similar to how he had found them.

"Let's go, Neal," Peter said softly.

"There's an air duct in the men's room on this floor that connects to an opening on the roof. We can take the fire escape down from there."

_Of course he already has an escape plan_, the agent thought. They made their way to the restroom, while Neal wiped the prints off Jacqueline's badge and tossed it haphazardly into the ficus.

"It'll look like it fell off when she rubbed against it," Neal answered his partner's questioning expression. "She won't suspect Lyle's business school buddies were behind the security breach." He grinned mischievously. Grudgingly, Peter had to respect the con man's intellect. Sure, it sometimes got him into trouble; but today, it had gotten them both out of it.

Neither of them spoke again until their shoes landed firmly on the concrete outside Macmillan, Lyle, and Walters. "Coffee, Neal?"

"About time, Peter," the younger man griped. "Your treat?"

Peter shook his head and said nothing while Neal sauntered down the street next to him.


	5. Chapter 5

Neal breathed in the enlivening aroma of the freshly brewed house blend in his cup and smiled, the twinkle in his eye restored. _I'll need that later to fool Peter_, he thought. "Mmm," he moaned absently.

"That good, huh?" Peter asked, snapping the younger man out of his trance.

"Mmm, yes." He nodded for emphasis. "Thank you. I needed this."

"Don't get used to it," the older man cautioned.

"Oh, too late." Neal flashed a devious grin. "Looks like Star_burke_'s is in business now."

"Ha, ha." Peter sighed reluctantly at the pun. He took a sip of his own steaming drink as the pair settled into silence at a small table in the corner of the café. It was bustling but not full, with enough background noise to overpower the sound of their voices. He hoped it would be comfortable and private enough for the conversation he knew they needed to have. "Neal…" he began.

Neal set his cup down and looked up slowly to meet Peter's eyes. _Guess I have to use it sooner than I expected_, he decided, mentally carving his features into a careful mask.

"Do we have to do this, Peter?" he asked quietly. For a moment, the agent thought he saw fear in his consultant's eyes – but in a flash it had disappeared, giving way to a gentler expression: a pleading one.

To say the sudden change in Neal's demeanor surprised and concerned Peter would be an understatement of epic proportions. He knew the con artist had a sensitive, vulnerable side. But he hadn't realized just how close to the surface it had come these past few months. Looking at his partner, his _friend_ – he could almost see the fiery explosion engulfing the small plane reflected in his wide blue eyes.

"It doesn't have to be now. And it doesn't have to be with me. But you do need to talk to _someone_ or it's only going to get harder."

Neal nodded. "Okay."

Peter placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Soon," he encouraged, giving Neal a slight shake.

"Yeah, alright, I will." He replied, weakly attempting to laugh off his handler's stern look. "Really," he insisted, "just let me discuss some things with Moz."

Having avoided "the talk" yet again, Neal felt more comfortable in Peter's company; he could finally relax, begin to let his guard down. They finished their coffees and headed back towards the bureau on foot. There was more to Lyle than the mystery of the Thaynic Project, and both men were eager to uncover what was truly going on at Macmillan, Lyle, and Walters.

* * *

"Neal…? Neal!" Peter kicked the desk chair, jolting a rather embarrassed con man out of his unintentional slumber.

"No!" he said forcefully, eyes flying open and quickly scanning his surroundings. Reality hit him a moment later. "Oh! Uhh, sorry Peter." He continued, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You fell asleep at your desk – after consuming a large cup of black coffee." The agent studied his consultant's face carefully. "You're not sleeping at night, are you," he commented, rather than questioned, in a low voice.

Neal saw no point in gratifying his handler with a verbal response, so he merely shrugged. "Have you ID'd the woman from the surveillance notes yet?"

His expert attempt at sidetracking the agent went undetected. "From the description as well as cross-referencing the landmarks and addresses mentioned, we have a list of three possible employees of Macmillan, Lyle, and Walters. Jocelyn Beck in finance, Mary Anne Powell from legal – but the most interesting person would be Cynthia Walters," Peter reported.

"Walters… as in, one of Lyle's partners in the brokerage?"

He nodded. "That's the one."

Neal smiled, knowing this case was about to get very interesting. He stood up and reached for his hat.

"Oh, no, you're not going anywhere near the brokerage after that last stunt," the agent scolded. "Jones and Diana have this one. You're coming with me."

"Where are we going, Peter?" Neal inquired.

"The entire white collar division saw you passed out on your desk for half an hour. I had to tell Hughes _something_ – so I told him you weren't feeling well. He insisted that I take you to one of the bureau docs to get checked out," Peter explained.

"So, we're going to head in that direction, and then go chase down some more leads while everyone thinks we're there, right?" the con artist replied slyly, knowing his partner would have trouble passing up an opportunity to work. "I can forge some medical documents, take a few sugar pills-"

"Come on, Neal. When was the last time you even saw a doctor?"

"Right before I was strip searched at prison intake." Neal's tone became colder. "Thank you for that." He felt the tremor in his hands returning.

"Standard procedure. Wasn't my doing," the agent mumbled by way of apology. "Now, I know for a fact that these FBI docs don't do strip searches, so you should be fine. Let's go." He grabbed his coat and the keys to the Taurus and headed out. Neal followed reluctantly behind him, lowering the brim of the fedora just enough to conceal the anxiety betrayed in his eyes.

When they reached the car, he stopped Peter right before the older man turned the key in the ignition. "Why are we really doing this, Peter?" he asked.

Peter sighed. "I'm trying to do you a favor."

"How exactly does dragging a healthy man to a doctor against his will classify as a favor?" Neal asked, feeling himself become agitated.

"Just listen to me for a minute. It's how the bureau works… You could go in for counseling, but that goes on your record. If I take you for a medical exam, and the doctor happens to refer you for counseling, well, that's different." He paused to study the younger man's expression. "I know that's not right, but that's how it is. We've all had to fake various illnesses from time to time to put a tough case behind us. It's better than suffering in silence to avoid a notation in your file." He drew in a breath. "Okay?"

"Okay," the younger man consented hesitantly. He understood, but he was still uncomfortable.

"You really don't like doctors, do you?" Peter observed.

"That last one had a _terrible_ bedside manner." Neal shuddered, both in recollection and anticipation. Peter turned the key and the pair drove off towards midtown.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter tried to be subtle, pretending to focus on the stop-and-go New York City traffic, while sneaking glances at his much too silent passenger. But despite all the training hours he had logged at Quantico and all the times he had gone undercover in the field, there was no fooling a con man.

"I know what you're doing, Peter," Neal finally spoke, deliberately looking down at his lap. "I'm fine. You can stop checking up on me."

"Hmm?" Peter grunted, still feigning innocence.

Now the consultant attempted to make eye contact with his driver. "Really?" he asked, his voice full of sarcastic disbelief. Peter knew he was caught.

"You're too quiet, Neal," he responded. "When you get like this, you start thinking up cons, and that's what gets you into trouble." He put his right hand on the younger man's shoulder in a reassuring gesture, and gently squeezed. "I know you don't always like doing things my way-"

"No, I don't," Neal interrupted calmly.

"I just hope you understand that, in the long run, this is for the best. You can thank me later." The agent's words rang with sincerity and wisdom. He removed his hand and placed it back on the steering wheel as he flicked the right turn signal with his other hand.

Neal didn't feel any better about this whole situation, but a voice in his head reassured him. _He's only trying to help_, he realized grudgingly. He made an obvious attempt to relax, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. "How much further?" he asked.

"Two blocks," Peter answered. "Start looking for parking spots – midtown's crowded this time of day and I don't want to have to pay for the parking garage."

Neal began to scan the road for spaces large enough to parallel park in, grateful for the excuse to turn away from Peter. He stealthily removed his phone from his pocket and sent a single text message. _Moz – SOS!_ With any luck, his loyal friend and accomplice could get him out of this.

His phone vibrated. _What have you gotten yourself into, Neal?_ was Mozzie's reply.

Neal typed back, _Peter's taking me to the doctor and I'm not even sick. You gotta get me out of this_.

Another buzz. _Why's he doing that?_

_It's his backwards way of getting me to a shrink. Looks bad to the Feds if you just go to one without a medical referral_, he texted back quickly.

"See any spaces?" Peter asked, distracting Neal's attention from the cell phone.

"Umm… yeah, on the right up ahead there," he recovered swiftly, before his handler could notice the plan being hatched.

Finally the phone buzzed back. _Sorry man, but the Suit may be right about this one. Just go along with it_.

Neal pocketed the phone just as Peter shifted the Taurus into park. "You alright, Neal?" he inquired, giving his partner the opportunity to open up.

The expression on Neal's face was a mixture of betrayal, disappointment, resignation, and nervousness. "Fine," he replied, extending a shaky hand to open the car door. "I just wish there was another way to do this that didn't involve…" he trailed off. He was sure Peter could finish his thought by now.

"If I had known how uncomfortable this would make you, I would've made Hughes a different excuse." Peter gestured towards the doctor's office suite. The two men walked up the street and went inside.

The office was painted a faint yellowish tan with soothing gray-green carpet and crisp white trim moulding. There was a large framed print of Van Gogh's Room at Arles hanging on the wall to the left that was complemented by the abundant plant life placed around the waiting area. It was reasonably well decorated, to Neal's tastes; _I could have made a better forgery of that Van Gogh, though_, he mused to himself.

Peter checked his consultant in with the receptionist. Apparently Hughes had called ahead and dropped a sufficient quantity of influential names to allow them to obtain a walk-in appointment.

Neal was snapped out of his head space when a nurse came out to greet them. "Agent Burke, mister Caffrey, please come with me." He read her name badge: Shauna Reynolds, L.P.N.

_There's no getting out of this now_, he thought, temporarily filled with a surge of panic. He tried to compose himself as they walked down the corridor to an empty exam room.

"First things first – I almost forgot!" Shauna exclaimed. She placed a clear container in the con artist's hands and made an apologetic smile. "Urine sample. Bathroom is right next door."

Neal closed the bathroom door behind him and turned on the sink for background noise. He grabbed his cell phone one last time and dialed. "Come on, Moz," he muttered as it rang and rang, "I need you to pick up."

"Neal?" Finally, Mozzie answered. "I thought you were-"

"Yeah, I am. I need you to get me out of this." There was a tinge of panic in the con man's hushed tone. "Listen, if you hack into the FBI, fax the blank forms over here and I'll intercept them. Then all I have to do is check all the right boxes in his handwriting-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down!" his friend cut in. "Why do you need to get out of there so badly?"

"Moz…" he sighed, "I – I just don't want to."

"Well, that's not a good enough reason for me to hack the FBI! What is going on with you?" Something was obviously not right, and it was unusual for him to keep his closest ally in the dark at times like these.

"I can fool a voice stress analyzer, and I can stretch the truth around Peter… but I can't control my sympathetic nervous system." Neal's voice was but a whisper with his confession.

There was a knock on the door. "You alright in there, Neal?" Peter's voice was genuine with a hint of concern.

"Is that the Suit?" Mozzie asked.

"Yeah, I'm supposed to be peeing in a cup," the con artist muttered.

"Give the people what they want," his friend's voice responded. "Breathe slowly, find your happy place – try meditating."

"_Moz_!"

"I'm serious. I have to go." The line went dead and once again Neal was alone. Resigned to his fate, he undid his pants and relieved himself of what used to be coffee a few hours before.

"My apologies, Peter," he said, opening the door and handing the nearly full container to Shauna, "I didn't really have to go – and then I couldn't decide which waterfall I wanted to imagine." The nurse smiled at his humor. "I bet you hear that a lot."

"Actually, no, not that much," she corrected. "Let me drop this off in the lab, and I will meet you back in exam room two in a minute to get started." She pointed back to the room with the door open and walked off in the other direction.

Peter looked at Neal. "Do you want me to wait with you, or would you like privacy?" the agent asked.

"I might try to run," the consultant replied. It was the closest he could come to _yes, don't leave me alone_ without explicitly saying it.

"Okay," the agent said simply, and followed him back into the exam room.


	7. Chapter 7

The exam room was small and exceedingly clean-looking, with off-white vinyl flooring against pale powder blue wallpaper with a subtle striped texture. There was one window high on the back wall covered with a floral patterned valence. Neal did some quick trigonometry in his head before ultimately realizing the window was too high and too small to accommodate his hips.

Peter noticed his consultant sizing up the window, and fought against the urge to make some facetious comment comparing the size of the examination room to the jail cell he once inhabited. _Picking on the kid isn't going to help him with this_, he told himself. Instead, he took a seat in a chair in the corner of the room while Neal hoisted himself up onto the exam table. He looked slightly pale, and he had his hands clenched tightly around the edge of the table, on either side of his knees, to keep them from shaking.

"What are you doing, Neal?" the agent asked, glancing at the younger man, who appeared to be staring at the ceiling.

"Counting the specks on the drop ceiling tiles," he answered quietly without looking down, as if the noise or movement would disrupt his focus. "Distracting myself."

Respectfully, Peter fell silent. This was obviously a sensitive issue for his consultant that a simple "cowboy up!" would not resolve. He struggled in his mind with how he could convey his comfort and support until the door opened and Shauna Reynolds, L.P.N. returned with a tray of equipment.

"Okay, mister Caffrey, let's get your blood work done so the lab can work on that… when was the last time you had your cholesterol and blood sugar checked?" Shauna wasted no time getting into her professional routine.

"It's been a while," Neal admitted.

"And there's no need for a tox screen, Agent Burke?" she addressed his superior.

"That won't be necessary," he confirmed.

"Alright, well it will be a lot easier for me to get to those veins if you could remove your jacket and shirt. You can keep your undershirt on if that's more comfortable for you," Shauna instructed, noticing his hands fumble as he loosened his tie. He tossed his jacket, shirt, and tie at Peter in the corner, who caught them before they landed on his head.

"Don't let those wrinkle," Neal warned his handler, feeling somewhat exposed in just a white v-necked undershirt. He extended his arm as Shauna reached for it. She found the vein on the first try, to Neal's relief, and rapidly filled two small vials of blood, finally applying a bandage to the site.

"I'll just drop these off and be right back," she said before she looked back up at her patient. "Let me bring you some apple juice too," she added kindly as she left, hoping the sugar would return some of his color.

"You're white as a sheet," Peter commented when they were alone again.

The con man grunted weakly. "Nurse took all my blood. No color. No energy."

Shauna returned with a cup of juice, which she pressed into Neal's hand. "Here, you'll feel better if you drink this – not too fast!" she added before he could consume the contents in a single gulp. She began counting the pulse in Neal's other wrist as he sipped. Seventy-eight beats per minute was faster than it should be for a man of his age and apparent fitness level, but it wasn't unusual for patients to be nervous; she made a mental note to ask the doctor to re-check it after everything was complete to see if it had gone down some.

Neal handed Shauna his empty cup to dispose of. He didn't feel any better yet, but Peter seemed less worried, so he knew his color must be returning. The room was still a little fuzzy, but at least it wasn't spinning.

Shauna fastened the blood pressure cuff around Neal's arm and inflated it, inserting her stethoscope under the edge of the cuff. It felt cool on his exposed skin, but he was too out of it to complain. He sat and waited nervously as the nurse finished taking the reading.

"It's still a little low, mister Caffrey. That can happen with some patients' blood work. I'll have the doctor check it again before you leave to make sure it's fine," she reassured. Frankly, she was surprised it hadn't dipped low enough for him to pass out altogether. She had been in this profession long enough to be able to spot the fainters, and Neal hadn't initially struck her as one of them. _This job is full of surprises_, she thought. She quickly measured his temperature, which was normal, and recorded everything on his chart before she left, promising to send the doctor in right away.

"Still okay there, Neal?" Peter checked.

"Mmm-hmm," the con man responded, finally making delayed eye contact. "Not too awful."

"Good," Peter affirmed, more to himself at this point than to his partner. "Do you still feel like you might faint?"

"No, 's okay now," Neal mumbled back. "Just a little dizzy still." He drew in a slow, deep breath.

"Hang on a little longer. They'll be done soon, and then I'll take you home," the agent promised. If his consultant's openness was any indication of how he was feeling, Neal wouldn't be up to finishing the work day.

"Kay," he agreed.

A moment later the door opened again, and a fifty-something man in a white lab coat and tie entered the exam room. "Neal Caffrey," he read off his clipboard without looking up. "I'm Dr. Cohen-"

"Sam!" Peter interrupted, getting the doctor to look away from Neal's chart.

"Ahh, Agent Peter Burke, how are you?" By the way Dr. Cohen greeted Peter, Neal could tell they had met more than a few times. "How's that, umm, what is it – chronic headache?" he continued with a subtle wink.

"Fine, thank you," the agent answered sheepishly. "This is my consultant, Neal," he gestured, and the consultant shook the doctor's hand. _Samuel Cohen, M.D._ was embroidered on his lab coat above the left breast pocket.

"What can I do for you today, mister Caffrey?" he inquired with a warm smile.


	8. Chapter 8

Dr. Samuel Cohen paused for a moment when Neal didn't respond right away. The experienced clinician recognized the faraway expression on his patient's face – he had seen it many times before. The combination of nerves and blood loss was enough to bring even the toughest men to the fetal position. "Why don't you lie down for a while and we can talk," he suggested gently, guiding Neal's legs up onto the exam table as he reclined back against the thin paper-covered cushion.

Neal didn't have an ounce of charisma left in his drained frame, so he simply said, "thanks," and closed his eyes.

"What symptoms has he been experiencing, Peter?" Sam asked the agent, allowing the consultant to rest.

"You want the ones I've actually seen, or the ones we're making up to put in his file?" he answered.

"You've been with the bureau too long," the doctor chuckled. "If you tell me what's really going on, I can make a more convincing phony diagnosis for your precious paperwork."

"Well," the agent began, "he fell asleep at the office after we went out for coffee. I don't think he's sleeping at night – nightmares, maybe – and when he's awake, his hands are always shaking and clammy. Then this morning, his heart was pounding so hard and so fast I could feel it just standing next to him."

"How long have you noticed all this?" Sam inquired.

"It's been a few months, at least… ever since Kate died," Peter continued, his voice getting softer at the end.

"And who is Kate?"

"She was my girlfriend," Neal mumbled. "Her plane blew up right in front of me."

Both men looked in his direction. As if he could feel their eyes, he turned his head and opened his own. "I can hear you, you know," he complained.

The doctor addressed his questions to the con artist now. "Have you had any episodes of panic? Difficulty breathing, rapid heart rate, dizziness, nausea, trembling, numbness, feeling out of control…" he rattled off a long list of symptoms.

"No, no panic attacks," Neal responded.

"Feelings of hopelessness, emptiness, or self-harm?"

"I'm not suicidal," he answered, knowing where that line of questioning was going.

"Ahh, but are you depressed?" the doctor countered, hoping to outsmart his patient, who became quiet and closed his eyes again. "What _do_ you feel, mister Caffrey?"

Neal was very quiet for a moment. Then he felt his body began to tremble almost imperceptibly (were he not surrounded by trained observers), and he opened his eyes and spoke. "I feel… guilt. Disbelief. Loneliness. Anger. Fear… I feel like nothing in my life is certain… like bad things are going to happen to people I care about." He swallowed and continued. "I'm overwhelmed."

Peter hadn't heard this much raw honesty from Neal since the second time he had caught him, alone in Kate's empty apartment with nothing but the Bordeaux bottle. Then, it had been the con man with the broken heart; now, the agent felt his own heart aching for the pain his partner had been trying so hard to conceal from him the past few months.

"It's not at all unusual, what you're feeling – it sounds like you're struggling with some post-traumatic stress and anxiety. Most of the Feds I see have experienced that at some point in their career," Sam explained to Neal, who was clearly trying to hold back tears. His breathing had become more ragged as the painful emotions resurfaced, and the effort of composing himself around his handler was sapping what was left of his energy. "I'm going to write you a script for some sleeping pills so you can get some rest, but I can't legally prescribe anything without examining you. Are you still feeling dizzy? Can you sit up for me?"

"No, I'm alright," Neal answered, sitting up slowly.

"That's good," the doctor said reassuringly, checking the consultant's pupils with a small light. He felt the younger man's neck on both sides to examine his lymph nodes, which seemed fine; what concerned him was the rapid pulse he felt in his patient's arteries. He looked at him sympathetically. "Is there anything I can do to make this more comfortable for you, mister Caffrey? Shauna told me you seemed a little nervous…" he put his hands in his pockets.

Neal shook his head. "I can't help it. I had a bad experience the last time."

"They don't hire prison docs for their people skills," Sam agreed. "Take a deep breath and try to relax, alright? I'll go at your pace."

Neal nodded. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, hoping it would make some difference. He tried again when he realized he was feeling a little steadier. "I'm okay, doc," he said, trying to believe his own words.

"Good." The doctor smiled, placing his stethoscope in his ears. "I'm going to start listening to your lungs first." He lifted Neal's undershirt and put the end of the stethoscope to his back. "Breathe in," he instructed, as his patient did so. He checked both lungs and found them to be in good health. Next he listened to the con man's heart, placing the bell of his stethoscope on the younger man's chest, just under the hem of the v-neck. His heart rate was even higher still, but he could not hear any murmurs or arrhythmias.

He withdrew the stethoscope. "Breathe, Neal!" he reminded the consultant. "I'm just listening." He made his patient take a few more deep breaths to relax before he continued. "I have to listen to your heart again, lying down this time," Sam explained, motioning for him to lie back down on the exam table. "Can you lift your shirt up, please?" he asked.

Neal lifted a shaky hand and pulled his t-shirt up, revealing his chest. It was another small reminder of how vulnerable he felt here in this small exam room, only minutes after spilling his guts out to a perfect stranger. From where he was lying, he could see his heart beat shaking his body as it pound frantically against the inside of his ribs. _The worst part is, Peter and the doctor can see that too_, he realized, feeling even more exposed. "Wait," he pleaded.

"Let's try something here," the doctor suggested, an idea popping into his well-educated brain. "I'll just listen, as long as it takes, until I hear you calm down." He smiled sympathetically. "Guided exposure to your fears, under the right conditions, can help reduce your reaction to them. Can we try that?" Sam asked, recalling his psych rotation he completed as a medical resident.

Reluctantly, Neal agreed. "Okay," he said, bracing himself for the cold stethoscope to be placed back on his chest. He shivered slightly when it landed right over his racing heart.

Dr. Cohen repositioned himself so that his anxious patient could see the chair where his FBI handler was sitting. "Talk to Peter," he suggested.

"Hi, Peter," the con artist said weakly.

"How ya doin' there, Neal?" the agent replied.

"Just great, man." His tired attempt at sarcasm was barely detectable.

"Jones got us a new lead on our case," Peter continued, hoping the topic would be enough to take his consultant's mind off the uncomfortable situation he was barely enduring. "We have confirmed the identity of the woman under surveillance – it's definitely Lyle's partner, Cynthia Walters."

"Why is Lyle looking into her? What has she got to do with the Thaynic Project?"

Peter grinned, knowing he had the younger man's interest. "Neal, she _is_ the Thaynic Project." He chuckled. "Our code experts didn't figure it out until just now because it was so basic and they were too sleep-deprived to pick up on the letter scrambling."

Neal drew another breath, noting that it felt slightly easier, despite the cold metal of the stethoscope. "Why is Lyle investigating his own partner? Is she the one who snitched to the Feds on the insider trading charges?"

"No," Peter answered, "but this is where things start to get really interesting. Apparently Cynthia Walters is engaged in a clandestine romantic relationship with one Geoffrey Macmillan."

The consultant's blue eyes grew wide. "The third partner in the brokerage!" he realized.

"Exactly." Peter nodded.

"Why does Lyle care so much whether his partners are, well, _partners_?" Neal asked, his voice slick with innuendo.

"Jones is still working on that question right now," the agent responded. "He's working the business angle." He paused. "How do you feel now?"

"Heart rate has come down to sixty-six," Dr. Cohen answered for his patient, one eye on his wristwatch. "That's a much better number." He looked down at Neal, whose color had completely returned. "Now, shush, I can't hear your heart over the sound of classified FBI cases," he joked.

With that reminder of his current situation, Neal felt his heart rate increasing again. This time, he returned his attention to breathing slowly and evenly, and gradually he could feel his heart begin to slow back down. Dr. Cohen moved the stethoscope around Neal's chest, listening carefully for any abnormalities but not hearing any. "Your heart is perfectly healthy, mister Caffrey," he informed his patient with a smile, slinging his stethoscope around his shoulders. "That tachycardia is nothing to worry about, Peter," he said to assuage the agent's worries.

Sam concluded the exam by quickly palpating the con man's stomach and checking his reflexes. He checked Neal's blood pressure one last time and found that it had returned to normal. "You are in good physical condition overall," he reported. He pulled out his prescription pad and scribbled something illegible. "For the sleeping pills," he explained as he tore the page off and handed it to Peter. "They're a controlled substance, so with your criminal record I have to let Agent Burke handle them for you." Neal nodded in understanding as he re-dressed.

The doctor continued to scribble on his prescription pad, and tore off another sheet. "For the referral, if you want it" he said as he handed the page to the agent. "I have an old buddy from my residency days who sees a lot of war vets, so I trust him with your case."

Finally, the doctor pulled out Neal's chart and began to fill it out, checking various boxes and leaving comments on his findings from the examination. At one point, he stopped and looked up at the con artist. "Cough," he instructed.

Neal looked confused, but obeyed.

"Good. Now if anyone asks, let the record show that you have bronchitis," the wise doctor informed him, "and the coughing fits are keeping you up at night-"

"Hence the falling asleep on the job, and the script for sleeping pills." Neal smiled, having caught on to the doctor's game. "Thank you, doctor, for everything," he added earnestly.

"Call my office if you have any questions." Dr. Cohen ushered them out of the room. "It was a pleasure meeting you, mister Caffrey." He nodded at Peter. "Agent Burke, you have my number if those headaches return."

The pair left the office and walked back down the street to their parking spot, both feeling very much relieved.


	9. Chapter 9

Peter removed his smart phone from his pocket and speed dialed the switchboard for the white collar division. Neal heard it ring once; then Hughes' voice answered. "Burke? How is Caffrey?"

"He'll be fine, Hughes. Dr. Cohen says he has bronchitis – pretty bad, too, the coughing is keeping him from getting any real sleep," the agent gave his partner a meaningful look, and Neal coughed loudly for effect.

"Is that him? You'd better keep him out of the office until the cough goes away. Sam Cohen's a good physician, so you make sure Caffrey follows his advice!" Peter's boss hung up.

"Look at you, Peter, mastering the art of the con," Neal crooned with a sly grin.

"Now, that sounds like the old Caffrey," the older man observed, secretly relieved that his consultant was feeling better. He wasn't entirely sure he could handle a faint con man. "Get in, we're going to the pharmacy," he ordered, pointing to the Taurus.

"But, Peter, I-"

The agent cut him off. "No arguing. We're picking up those pills in case you need them."

"Fine, but I'm not taking them," the consultant retorted.

"Look, Neal, it's that or the shrink. Which do you prefer?"

Neal wasn't expecting his handler to drive such a hard bargain. As much as he hated the idea of drugging himself every night, he knew that discussing all of his most intimate problems with a therapist would be much worse. "Fine…" he sighed in defeat.

"You _have_ to be tired," Peter said gently. "At least get a few nights of good sleep out of this."

Nearly an hour later, the agent parallel parked in front of his house and shut off the engine. His exhausted passenger had dozed off in the car on the way back from the pharmacy, which had taken twice as long as usual due to the afternoon traffic. He gently shook the con artist's shoulder to wake him up.

"Whaaaa?" was the younger man's drowsy response. Peter laughed. "We're at your house. You said you were taking me home," Neal recovered.

"You're staying here tonight so we can watch you," the older man explained.

"Peter, that's really not-"

"I won't have you sleepwalking right out of your radius. Besides, there's some pot roast left over," he finished, clearly not above the use of bribery.

"The famous Peter Burke pot roast?" the consultant's crystal blue eyes lit up. "Well, I should have something to eat after having blood drawn… need to keep my energy up." With that, the two men walked inside the Burkes' home.

Peter opened the door to find his lovely wife of ten years, Elizabeth, already inside. "Hi, honey," she greeted him, kissing him lightly. Then she noticed the other man behind him. "Hello, Neal, it's good to see you! Come in, come in!" She went into hostess mode with a guest in the home. "How was work today?"

"We caught a break in the case this morning," The agent informed his wife, "and we spent the afternoon at Dr. Cohen's office."

"Is everything alright?" The mention of a doctor had her instantly concerned. "Does your head hurt, honey?"

"No, no, it's not my head, El – Neal has bronchitis," her husband clarified.

El turned her attention to the other man. "Do you want some tea, Neal? Here, sit down on the couch and rest," she began fluffing up the couch pillows before her husband gently grabbed her by the arm.

"El… Dr. _Cohen_ diagnosed Neal's bronchitis… _Sam_ Cohen," Peter guided, waiting for her to catch on.

"Ohh… OH!" She realized. She thought for a moment. "Well, sit down anyway – you look absolutely worn out, and a cup of tea never hurt anyone." She hurried into the kitchen. "I'll heat up some of the pot roast, too!" she called back to him.

Neal half-sat, half-fell down on the couch and let his head fall back, closing his eyes. Within a few minutes, his breathing became slow and rhythmic as he drifted off into a light slumber. His innocent appearance momentarily tricked Peter into feeling sorry for making him endure what was undoubtedly an uncomfortable experience. The older man soon remembered that he had done it for the right reasons, and that the man asleep on his sofa would be better off because of it in the long run. He got up and walked into the kitchen, deciding to let Neal sleep it off.

"Hold off on that pot roast, El," he addressed his wife. "He fell asleep on the couch."

Elizabeth's face twisted into a sympathetic expression. "Is he alright, honey?" she asked, voice full of concern.

He drew in a breath. "He's had a tough day. I thought bringing him to see Dr. Cohen would get him to open up. I didn't know he would be so nervous!" He looked in his wife's eyes. "He almost passed out when they drew his blood – and then he was so scared when Sam was examining him." He paused for a moment. "I've never seen Neal afraid like that before."

"Well, he's not super-human," she rationalized. "He may try to hide it from you, but he has weaknesses just like everyone else." She thought for a moment. "Why doesn't he like doctors, do you think?"

"I think… I think the prison doctor may have taken a few liberties with his strip search, but he won't tell me for sure," he answered in a hushed tone.

Elizabeth's eyes grew large as her mouth opened involuntarily. "No…" she whispered. "Poor Neal…"

Her husband drew her into a comforting embrace, gently rubbing her back with his hand. "He'll be okay, El. He's a fighter. We just have to keep him from doing anything stupid that could get him sent back to prison," he affirmed, "starting with this music box mess. He is convinced that it holds the answers to why Kate died, and he's too impulsive to be trusted with this mystery on his own."

"If someone killed me, wouldn't you do the same thing?" she pointed out. Peter had to agree.

"I would stop at nothing," he confirmed. He looked at his watch. "It's almost seven o'clock. Maybe we should wake him up, get some food in him?" he proposed.

"I'll preheat the oven," El said.

"Set it to 375," Peter ordered.

"That's too high for the pot roast, honey," his wife corrected.

"I know… I need you to make that delicious flourless chocolate cake of yours. I have an idea," the agent replied with a smirk.

"Oh, I know that look – this can _not_ be good," she teased. She began to assemble ingredients from the kitchen cabinets as Peter left the kitchen to wake the sleeping con man.


	10. Chapter 10

When Peter last left Neal, he had fallen asleep sitting up, head tilted back and slightly to the left. But when the agent returned to his living room, he found his partner stretched out across the cushions on his stomach, one arm dangling over the side of the couch where it rested on Satchmo's soft, golden head. The dog's eyes were closed as well.

"Satch!" Peter whispered. Instantly, his loyal canine's head popped up, Neal's hand dropping clumsily onto the floor. The dog got up and walked over to his master, wagging his tail excitedly. Peter scratched behind his right ear – his favorite spot – and then poured some dry food from a large plastic container into Satchmo's bowl. The dog crunched greedily as his master approached the sleeping con man sprawled on the sofa.

Neal stirred in his sleep, letting out a low groan. _Poor kid looks tired_, Peter observed. His trained eyes carefully took in every aspect of his partner's appearance: the dark circles under his eyes; the wrinkles slowly beginning to etch into his handsome face; the tousled hair, matted on one side where it lay against the pillow. The agent laid his hand on the center of Neal's back, feeling it rise and fall with each breath. He rubbed back and forth gently, but the consultant remained deeply asleep.

"Neal," Peter whispered, looking for a response. When there was none, the agent decided to check on something he had been curious about for quite some time, but never gotten around to asking. Gently, he slid the leg of the sleeping man's pants up to expose the tracking anklet. Neal had mentioned once in passing that this newer model chafed less than the old one, but Peter had never heard him complain even once about the foreign object strapped against his skin. The agent had to know if it was really uncomfortable, or if it was all a con designed to let him loose. He slid Neal's sock down over his ankle bone and examined the bare flesh under the hard plastic casing. Peter was pleased not to find any open sores or cuts; however there was some faint bruising and some old, toughened-up calluses under the plastic band that indicated the anklet was definitely no diamond tennis bracelet. It had to be causing him some minor discomfort on a daily basis. This worried the agent; if Neal kept quiet about trivial matters such as this, how could Peter ever expect to get the con artist to trust him enough to talk through his post-traumatic stress?

The older man sighed. He pulled the sleeping man's sock back into place and resumed rubbing his back, with more force this time. "Neal," he spoke louder, this time with the intent to wake him up.

Neal quickly rolled over and jolted upright. "Peter!" he exclaimed, breathless. His chest was heaving.

"Hey, it's okay, Neal," the agent said soothingly, hiding his own startled fear. "Deep breaths, right?" he prompted, taking the con man's wrist under his index and middle fingers, feeling the accelerated pulse. Neal tried half-heartedly to shake loose, but Peter held on firmly. "Just calm down, alright? Nice and slow," he coached as the consultant inhaled and exhaled slowly. Gradually, he felt his partner's pulse approach a normal rhythm.

"Sorry," the consultant mumbled, too tired to be more embarrassed. "Bad dream again."

"Don't worry about apologizing to me, okay?" the older man's voice was reassuring. He let Neal's wrist drop into his lap. "You hungry? The pot roast smells ready, and El's making chocolate cake."

"For me? You shouldn't have." Neal's attempt at charm was weakened significantly by his recent performance, but nonetheless he attempted to resume the charade in front of the Burkes. The two men got up and moved towards the dining room table just as Elizabeth exited the kitchen with a large casserole dish in her oven-mittened hands.

"Oh, good, you're awake!" she greeted her husband's partner. "You look better… do you feel better?"

"Yes, thank you, Elizabeth," Neal answered with his hundred-watt smile freshly recharged. The three sat down around the table and dug into the meal hungrily. After a few minutes of eating and small talk, the plates were placed on the floor one by one so Satchmo could lick the remaining beef broth from them.

"Mmm," Peter moaned, pleasantly stuffed.

"It's true what they say about leftovers," Neal added. "They are better the second time around."

"Thanks, boys," Elizabeth smiled appreciatively. The oven timer began to ding in the kitchen, and she and Neal both moved to get up.

"Allow me, Elizabeth," Neal offered.

"Oh, no, no, you sit!" she insisted a little too enthusiastically. A red flag went up in his mind; however, he trusted Elizabeth, so he dismissed it as no more than an artifact from his conning days. She grabbed the oven mitts from the table and went into the kitchen.

"Care for an after-dinner drink?" Peter asked.

"What are my choices?" the con man inquired.

"Umm… beer or merlot," the older man answered. "I'll get the wine glasses."

"You're a smart man, Peter," Neal said as Peter disappeared into the kitchen.

The scene was entirely different inside the kitchen. Elizabeth was using the sound of the garbage disposal to mask the noise she was making by grinding up two of the sleeping pills into a fine powder. She had already uncorked the 2004 merlot and poured a glass for herself and Neal.

When Peter entered, he grabbed his favorite brew from the fridge and popped the cap off. Then he turned his attention to the chocolate cake, inhaling the delicious fragrance. "That smells fantastic, El," he complimented.

"It _is_ fantastic," she retorted, about to sprinkle a handful of the sleeping powder over a slice.

"Wait a minute," he stopped her. "He'll be expecting the cake, and he'll see the powder on it. It's too obvious."

"The wine!" she whispered. "It'll dissolve completely!"

"I married the most beautiful, smartest woman in the world," Peter grinned, kissing his wife on the cheek. "Go serve the decoy cake."

A moment later, they emerged with three slices of cake, two glasses of red wine, and a beer, distributing them around the table. Neal took his glass and sipped it delicately as Peter and Elizabeth began to sink their forks into the cake.

"Interesting bouquet on this one, Elizabeth," the consultant commented. "Where was it produced?"

"Sonoma Valley, California," she replied.

"Sonoma is the new Napa," Neal quipped, taking another sip.

"Try the cake, Neal," Peter urged. "El makes the best flourless chocolate cake I have ever tasted."

"Thanks, Peter, but I know you dosed it somehow, so I'm gonna have to pass… no hard feelings, Elizabeth," he smiled at her.

"If you don't trust us-" Peter began.

"Oh, don't be silly. Here, have mine," Elizabeth swapped her plate with Neal's. "I've only had a bite of it, and I'm fine."

Neal took a bite of her cake and nodded in approval. "Mmm, this is really good," he affirmed.

"I'm told the wine complements it perfectly," Peter commented dryly, taking another swig of his beer.

"You were told correctly," Neal replied with a grin, drinking the final sip from his glass of wine. The trio rapidly finished off their dessert and drinks and chatted for a few more minutes before deciding to clean up. Elizabeth began to gather the plates and silverware. Neal, drawing upon his manners, rose to help. The next moment, he swayed and nearly fell over into Peter's grasp.

"You… _drugged_ me!" Neal accused. "How?" he demanded. "Cake was too obvious… not the wine!" His mouth dropped open in exaggerated horror.

"I'm sorry, Neal, but you really need your rest," Elizabeth apologized.

"Come on, let's get you to bed before you pass out at the table," Peter urged, placing Neal's arm over his shoulder and grabbing the drowsy man around his waist.

"Maybe the wine was a bad idea, sweetie," his wife said with concern as they prepared to climb the stairs. "Are you supposed to mix it with alcohol? It kicked in pretty fast."

"He wouldn't have taken it otherwise," her husband answered. "He'll be fine." He helped Neal slowly up the stairs and sat him down on the guest bed. Peter pointed to a small bag sitting on the dresser. "June sent some of your things over so you could get changed," he informed his partner.

"Thanks, Peter," Neal mumbled as he removed his jacket and tie. Peter left the room, closing the door behind him so the con man could change in private.

He entered the master bedroom, where his wife had changed into an FBI t-shirt and pajama bottoms for the night. "Looks good on you," he flirted.

"Let me guess, it'll look better on the floor, right?" she retorted. "I've heard that one before, honey. Not tonight, though, okay? I thought we needed to keep an eye on Neal."

Peter sighed. "You're right. Let's get some rest, then." He crawled into bed next to his wife and shut off the lights.

Within a few minutes, the house was silent except for a faint whimper barely heard through the walls.


	11. Chapter 11

Elizabeth was lying in bed next to her husband, one arm draped comfortably across his torso; he was fast asleep and motionless except for his steady breathing. She had not yet fallen asleep after her busy day spent coordinating with caterers and venues for her company's next big event. Closing her eyes, she ran her hand gently over Peter's stomach as he slept. He grunted lightly in his sleep, subconsciously enjoying her touch, before he became quiet again.

Then out of the silence, she heard a small noise emanating from the adjacent bedroom. It sounded like the cry of a small child or an animal, but the couple had no children and Satchmo was snoring in his dog bed on the floor. After a moment, Elizabeth realized where the whimper was coming from. She got up slowly, taking care not to disturb Peter, and tiptoed into the hallway. As quietly as possible, she carefully opened the door to the guest bedroom – which was prone to creaking – and stepped inside.

"Shhh, Neal," she whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She ran her fingers through his wavy brown locks in a soothing manner.

Neal woke up, confused under the effects of the sleeping pills. "Kate?" he asked, propping himself into a sitting position

"No, sweetie, it's me, Elizabeth," she corrected him gently.

"Kate…" he mumbled again, his foggy brain convincing him that the round-faced woman with long brown hair was his late girlfriend. "I miss you so much," he whispered, his voice nearly breaking. He reached his hand up to play with Elizabeth's hair, twirling it around his finger clumsily. She did not know how to react to Neal in this state, but decided it might be best to chastely play along, afraid that it would upset him more if she didn't.

"What's wrong, Neal?" Elizabeth asked softly. "Tell me," she encouraged.

"You can't be gone… you just _can't_ be…" he murmured.

"I'll always be with you, Neal," she replied comfortingly. "Go to sleep and dream about our life together."

"When I wake up, you'll be gone," he protested, wrapping his arms around Elizabeth and resting his head against her chest.

"Shhh," she soothed. "Go to sleep. I know it's hard, but someday you'll have to move on." She continued running her fingers gently through the grieving man's hair, hoping it would put him into a calm slumber. "I'll always be in your heart."

"I can hear yours," he mumbled. Its soft beat was comforting to him, a reminder of his own life he still had left to live. "It's beautiful," he breathed sleepily.

She planted a light kiss on his forehead. "It's yours," she told him, speaking on Kate's behalf. "Now, please sleep." She started to pull herself loose of the slightly awkward embrace, but Neal fought that movement; instead, Elizabeth leaned back against the headboard, cradling the con man's head against her body, deciding to wait until he fell asleep to untangle himself. He continued to listen to the gentle beating of Elizabeth's heart as he slipped from consciousness into a drug-enhanced rest.

When Peter stirred and found himself alone in his bed, it took him a moment to deduce where his wife had gone. He peeked into the guest bedroom and found, much to his surprise, Neal fast asleep on Elizabeth's chest.

"It's not what it looks like, honey," she smiled.

"I know," he answered. His trust in her was absolute.

"The medicine made him confused… he thought I was _her_," she whispered as Peter leaned against the door frame.

"Kate?" he inquired. She nodded in agreement. He let out a mournful sigh. "He's really hurting, isn't he?" he commented.

"Doesn't he talk to you?" his wife asked, concerned.

"Not about this." He shook his head. "He is just starting to fully trust me. I don't think he is willing to open up about this yet… to anyone, really."

"Can you take him for that referral? I know how much it helped you, after that time…" she let her voice trail off. They both knew to what she was referring; it needed no mention.

"I'll try," he shrugged. "He'll fight it, you know."

"I know," she confirmed, "that's just his spirit."

"As long as he still has that spirit, he'll be okay," her husband assured her. He looked Neal up and down, his eyes finally resting on Elizabeth's face. "Are you comfortable, honey?"

She smiled slightly. "It's a little weird with him here and you there, watching," she replied. "I think my heartbeat was lulling him to sleep, but he's definitely out now." She shifted herself so that Peter could place the pillow beneath Neal's head, settling him gently into position and tucking the covers in around him.

"He's so cute when he sleeps," Elizabeth murmured. She looked up into her husband's eyes as he enveloped her in a firm embrace. "Can we keep him, honey?" she joked.

"Yes… yes, we can," he replied, kissing her sweetly. He led her by the hand back into their bedroom, where they curled up side-by-side and drifted off to sleep.

**Short and sweet... :)**


	12. Chapter 12

Neal woke in the morning when the light of the rising sun began to stream through the bedroom window; it rested upon his face, warming it pleasantly. He stretched with a light groan, rolling over and almost falling out of the bed with surprise when he saw Peter watching him from the doorway.

"Morning," he greeted. "How do you feel after last night?"

Neal sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. "Considering the fact that you've been watching me sleep, a little creeped out," he retorted in typical Caffrey fashion. "What do you mean, _after last night_?" he asked hesitantly.

"You don't know?" the older man asked; the con man shook his head. "What's the last thing you remember?" he prompted.

"I remember you carrying me upstairs after being roofied-"

"They're not roofies, Neal, they're prescription sleep aids," Peter corrected.

"You put it in my _wine_, Peter – I'd call that a roofie," Neal pointed out, rather indignantly.

The agent sighed in frustration. "Regardless, you really don't remember what happened last night after we put you in bed?"

"I think it's a safe assumption that I fell asleep," was Neal's smart aleck reply.

"Well… yes…" Peter began. His consultant met his gaze with a quizzical expression. "You should talk to Elizabeth about the nightmares, Neal." The agent's tone was gentle, concerned. "She heard you last night."

"Oh," he said simply, grasping the unspoken meaning in that sentence. "That bad, huh?"

"When I found you, you were asleep with your head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat to calm you down," the agent explained. "You must have been groggy, because you seemed to think she was Kate."

The ever-suave con man suddenly felt flushed. "Peter, I am _so_ sorry. You know I would never make a move on your wife!" he apologized hurriedly.

"It's okay, Neal," the older man assured him. "El's not offended; she understands you were out of it." Neal still felt a little like he should be embarrassed. "She made you some muffins. Get dressed and come have one." With that, Peter left his consultant in privacy and went downstairs to brew a pot of coffee. When the coffee pot had begun percolating loudly, Peter retrieved the referral slip from his files and dialed silently.

"Dr. Ford's office," a woman's voice answered after the first ring.

"This is Agent Peter Burke, FBI. I need to make an appointment for my CI, Neal Caffrey. He was referred by Dr. Sam Cohen."

"Dr. Cohen is an old friend of Dr. Ford's, Agent Burke. We happen to have a cancellation this afternoon at 1:30 if mister Caffrey is available," the receptionist continued.

"We'll be there. Thank you," Peter responded and quickly hung up, hearing footsteps descending from the stairs. Neal caught him with the phone still in his hand and a guilty expression.

"What was that all about?" he asked. "And please don't lie to me."

"We have somewhere to be this afternoon – no, not at the office," the agent addressed the anticipated interruption. "Hughes already gave us the day off."

"You're taking me to a shrink," Neal guessed, his voice devoid of any inflection.

"Just try it once, Neal. You don't have to go back if you insist on it," his handler pleaded.

"Fine. Once." The con artist's tone was firm. He obviously wasn't thrilled. "When?"

"One-thirty," the agent answered him. "We'll take a long lunch, I'll drop you off, wait outside in the car, check your tracking data, you know – the usual." He shrugged, trying to sound casual so as not to worry his consultant.

"What do we do 'til then?" Neal asked with a mouthful of cranberry muffin.

Peter passed him a cup of coffee. "Chew, and swallow," he said.

Neal obeyed, rinsing the crumbs down with a sip of the steaming java. "Is there any new information about the case?" he asked, getting his partner's attention.

"Diana got us something interesting on Geoffrey Macmillan," the agent replied.

"What did she find?" the con man asked, taking another bite.

"Macmillan and Walters have pooled their resources and now control two-thirds of the brokerage," Peter announced. "Stock shares, clients – they could overthrow the entire board of directors and force Lyle out without any compensation."

"So what's keeping them from doing it?" the younger man wondered.

"Lyle's been demanding large sums of money from Walters and Macmillan in exchange for allowing him to remain with the brokerage. The money was channeled through the Thaynic Project accounts to disguise the funds. But that's not all," his handler continued.

"What _else_ did Diana find?" Neal probed.

"Mrs. Macmillan," Peter stated. "She has no idea her husband is cheating on her with his business partner."

"We can use this, Peter," the con man began to scheme. "The charity dinner this weekend! I'm sure a lady as prominent as Lydia Macmillan would be in attendance." His eyes lit up at the thought.

"What charity dinner?" the agent inquired.

"The Deveraux Foundation has a fancy gala every year to attract donors with large wallets. The charity is legit – they provide scholarships for underprivileged at-risk kids to attend private high schools." Peter gave his CI a knowing glare. "It's my job to know everything, Peter," Neal explained. "Just let me go to the dinner, and I'll find out what we're missing about these three partners."

"And how do you propose we get that information? You hardly look like a poor inner-city kid in that getup," the agent teased.

"Easy," answered the consultant. "We bring the FBI's checkbook." He flashed a blinding smile.

"You want the bureau to authorize funds so you can con some details out of a married socialite with a greedy, cheating husband?" The disbelief was evident in the older man's voice.

"We've done more with less before, Peter," the younger man reminded him. "You know if anyone can find out what Mrs. Macmillan knows about her husband's business dealings, it's me," he coaxed.

"Neal…" he began cautiously.

"Come on," Neal nearly begged.

"Alright, _if_ you can convince Hughes to appropriate the cash," Peter emphasized, "then you can go in. You'll need an airtight cover story."

"I'm Steve Tabernacle," the con artist said. "I have loads of money, and I'm an old friend of Lyle's – as his partner's wife, she'll be socially obligated to talk to me."

"You can't be Steve Tabernacle!" the agent pointed out. "Lyle will know that name by now. You did an excellent job of spooking him yesterday." He sighed, handing Neal the phone. "Work with Jones on a new alias. You've got two days before this dinner. Make it happen."


	13. Chapter 13

**Tag to 2x06 In The Red**

Neal took the phone from Peter's hand and called up his coworker. "Good morning Agent Jones," he said cheerfully.

"Caffrey." Jones was in an insufficiently caffeinated state and in no mood for nonsense. It was still too early in the day for the felon's signature charm and wit.

"I need an alias," Neal continued. "Something affluent, well-connected and philanthropic. It has to hold up at the Deveraux Foundation's charity dinner this weekend." He paused. "Oh, and could you ask Hughes to set aside fifty grand for me? I know there's plenty left from my last poker game."

Jones snorted. "Just because you won that money doesn't mean you can use it as your own personal FBI allowance," he pointed out.

"I would hate to lose a valuable opportunity to get information on this case simply because the bureau was stingy with its cash," Neal crooned in his most convincing tone.

He heard Jones sigh on the other end. "I'll ask. I'll fax your alias to Burke when it's complete." The agent hung up, and Neal set the phone back down.

"Alright, now what?" he asked awkwardly. "We still have a lot of time to kill before…"

Peter made eye contact. "How ya holding up?" he asked.

"Fine, I guess," Neal breathed. He kept his hands flat on the table so their shaking was concealed from his partner's observant gaze. He was silent for a while before he continued. "I wish you would let me make my own choices, Peter."

"I do, Neal – as much as I can," the agent answered. "You're a grown man."

"You've been treating me like a child lately, and you know it. Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do," Peter replied with a twinge of hurt. "What is this all about, Neal?"

"I didn't want to go to the doctor. I didn't want to take any sleeping pills. And I don't want to talk to a shrink. But you didn't give me any say in the matter at all!" The con man's features were taut with anguish. "You make me feel like a prisoner," he whispered.

"Hey," the older man soothed. "I have never once treated you like less than a human being, even though you were convicted of a felony. I made sure you had a fair trial, that you were safe in prison – I even made sure your friends could visit you in there."

"That prison wasn't safe, Peter," the con man said with a shudder that was hard to miss. "You don't know what that doctor did to me… how he violated my trust…" his voice trailed off, but his deep eyes swirled with the resurfacing of long-buried anger.

"What happened to you in there, Neal?" his handler asked as gently as he could muster.

"I can't talk about it," the younger man replied, feeling his heart pound faster in his chest. Suddenly he felt like there wasn't enough air in the room to breathe. "I can't talk about it," he repeated breathlessly.

Peter put his hand on his consultant's back and leaned him forward. "It's okay, we won't talk about it." Neal lowered his head between his knees and waited for his breath to return. "Just relax… deep breaths… calm down," he advised the younger man. "Breathe in and out."

"I don't want," he panted, "to talk about this," he panted again, "okay?"

"Okay," Peter agreed. "Now, please breathe, Neal." He felt his heart fill with empathy for his consultant's pain. He recalled a moment in his own not-so-distant past when he had been reduced to panic, quickly brushing it from his mind. "Nice and slow… in and out."

The con man filled his lungs with air slowly and deliberately for a few long minutes until his composure returned. He sat back up in his chair. Peter could now clearly see the drained expression on his face.

"Give me your wrist," the agent ordered, pressing his fingers against Neal's pulse. It was still elevated, but slowing down gradually. Neal continued to breathe heavily for another minute.

"I'm okay," he mumbled, slightly embarrassed about having Peter witness his breakdown.

"Sure you are," Peter scoffed. "You're having flashbacks." He released the con artist's wrist. "And the memories are giving you panic attacks."

"That was the first time," the younger man said. "I swear it's never happened like that before." He looked up with intensity in his wide blue eyes. "Don't make me tell the shrink."

"I can't tell you what to talk about with him, Neal, but I wish you would," the older man responded. "Dr. Ford is an expert on post-traumatic stress, and he knows how to make the panic attacks go away."

"Is he the one who helped you?" Neal guessed. The look in his handler's eyes when he heard the question gave the con man all the answers he needed. "You never told me what happened with you."

"That's because I told Dr. Ford, so I wouldn't have to talk about it with everyone else." Peter responded.

"You told Elizabeth," the consultant pointed out.

"She's my wife. I tell her everything," the agent answered. "She encouraged me to go, and supported me the whole way."

"And that's what you're trying to do for me," Neal said slowly, finally realizing.

"It's the best thing for you right now, Neal," Peter implored. "Please, just trust me."

"I do, Peter," the con man replied. "It's everyone else I don't trust. I don't want to spill my guts to a perfect stranger." He swallowed. "I'm more comfortable talking to you," he confessed.

The agent thought for a moment. "If I cancel this appointment, you need to promise me you'll open up," he proposed sternly. "No deflecting and no games. You will be entirely honest with me."

"What about crimes you have no knowledge of?" Neal interrupted. "My protection against self-incrimination?"

"I'll uphold your fifth amendment rights," the older man promised, "as long as you give me something to work with – the truth."

"Fine," the younger man consented.

"And if it doesn't get better, you _will_ tell me and we will take you to the shrink," The agent continued. "I'm not going to be your excuse to avoid professional help if that's what you need."

"I said it's fine," Neal echoed. His expression was still one of sheer exhaustion.

Peter nodded. "Go lie down on the couch for a bit. I'll cancel that appointment." He picked up the phone and walked into the kitchen. Neal sat down on the couch and closed his eyes, and was fast asleep within minutes.


	14. Chapter 14

Elizabeth came home that afternoon to discover her husband watching the third inning of the Yankees versus the Mets with the sound muted, which was unusual. She soon realized what was happening when she walked into view of the con man passed out asleep on her couch.

"Hi, honey," Peter greeted his wife. "How was work today?"

"Slow," she replied. "I spent most of the day rearranging next month's schedule." She paused. "Has Neal been asleep the whole time?"

"He woke up after you left this morning," her husband answered. "Fell back asleep before lunch."

"He must be really tired," Elizabeth commented sympathetically.

"I tried to take him to see Dr. Ford, but I think it was too fast for him. We had just started to talk, but then he got really emotional and shut me down. Poor kid had a panic attack." His voice sounded guilty. "I didn't mean to pressure him, El."

"It's not your fault, honey," Elizabeth responded. "You couldn't have known what would upset him." She sat sideways across Peter's lap and wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her head onto his shoulder.

"I love you," he said, kissing her forehead and smoothing her hair.

"I love you too," she replied softly. She stayed entwined with him for a while; her husband's arms had always been a very comfortable place in which to find herself. She only moved when she heard Neal stir. "Let me handle this," she told her husband.

Elizabeth got up and knelt beside the couch. "Neal," she whispered, massaging his shoulder blade.

His eyes fluttered open. "Elizabeth," he said after a moment. "What time is it?"

"It's five forty-one," she answered. His expression was still confused. "Yeah, you slept all day. Are you hungry? I'm about to start dinner."

"Famished," he replied. "What are you making?"

"Turkey lasagna… it's low fat," she explained.

"I hate to impose-"

"You _know_ it's no trouble, Neal." Elizabeth cut him off.

"If you insist," he said with a grin. "I hope you have some Chianti to go with it."

"In fact, we do," she said, crossing the room to pull a bottle from the wine rack. She held it up with a flourish for the con man to critique.

"Is that… a 2004? That was a good year for the vineyards in Tuscany," Neal commented expertly.

"I'll get the corkscrew," Elizabeth announced with a smile.

Neal sat up. "What are you watching, Peter? Baseball?"

"It's the Yanks and the Mets, Neal," the agent informed him, disbelief present in his features. "Game's tied at two, bottom of the third, one out."

"How can you even tell with the sound off?" the con man taunted.

"I've been following the ball," Peter retorted.

"Boys, play nice!" came his wife's shout from the kitchen.

Neal flashed his trademark grin and shrugged. "It's never smart to anger the person preparing your food," he teased his handler. "Or the person you share your bed with," he added. The consultant's expression quickly deflated as Peter glared at him for that last remark. "Okay, no bedroom comments," he mumbled to himself.

The men turned their attention to the game as the aroma of browned turkey, tomatoes, cheese, garlic, and sweet basil floated out of the kitchen. Every once in a while Peter would cheer triumphantly or boo ardently, depending on how the umpire's calls affected the score of the game. Neal watched silently, not having any personal stake in the game. Old habits found him observing his handler the way he used to watch a mark; noting the mannerisms, the responses elicited by the situation, and his personality quirks. He shook his head when he caught himself doing so, mentally criticizing himself for not changing. It was too deeply ingrained in the man he had become. For him not to do so could perhaps leave him vulnerable – a mistake which he could not afford to make.

Neal was snapped out of his head space by the beeping of the kitchen timer. "Honey, will you set the table?" Elizabeth called from the kitchen.

"Cloth or paper napkins?" Peter asked.

"Paper's fine," she answered.

The older man got up and clicked off the television with the remote, starting to set the table. Neal used the opportunity to visit the restroom and wash up. He was glad he did; his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror was a slight shock to him. For a moment he carefully studied the way the stress and fatigue of recent days were displaying themselves on his face, fingers gently running over the dark under-eye circles and across the light creases in his forehead. Finally, deciding not to dwell on the matter any more than was absolutely necessary, he washed his face and hands with cool water and dried them on the fluffy yellow towels Elizabeth had undoubtedly picked out.

He emerged from the bathroom just as Elizabeth was placing the steaming pan of lasagna onto a metal trivet in the center of the dining room table. The smell was absolutely tantalizing; it nearly made Neal's mouth water.

"Dig in!" she said, handing the serving spoon to her husband.

The meal was savored with lively conversation about the baseball game, upcoming social events Elizabeth's company was planning, and the secret recipe for the tomato sauce (which was not revealed, to Neal's dismay). It finally concluded with empty plates and wine glasses and the promise of leftovers.

"Let's go, Neal, I'll drive you home," Peter said after they cleaned up. He grabbed his keys and the sleeping pills and went outside to the car. The con artist followed behind him, off in his own little world inside his head.

A few short minutes later, they pulled in at June's residence. Neal grabbed his overnight bag from the back seat of the Taurus and went inside. Peter followed him up the stairs to his apartment, nodding a greeting at the landlady as they went. He would have to explain the situation to her on his way out.

The con man opened the door and set his belongings down on the kitchen table. Peter took a seat on the couch while Neal filled two glasses with water from the faucet. He handed Peter one, which he set down on the coffee table.

"Use a coaster, Peter," the consultant chided. He slid one under his own glass and sat down in the chair across from his handler. Silence enveloped them.

Finally the agent spoke. "Where would you like to start?" he asked.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: The content of this chapter is somewhat graphic, but I tried to write it as tastefully as possible. You have been cautioned.**

Neal sighed and held out his hand. "Give me the pills, Peter."

"Oh, no – you're not getting off that easy," the agent refused. "You said you'd talk to me. So, talk." The con man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You can have 'em when you're done," Peter added in explanation.

"Fine," Neal consented, folding his arms across his chest. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to tell me what's really bothering you so we can fix it," the older man answered.

"I'm not a leaky faucet, Peter. You can't just break out the wrench from your tool box." He unfolded his arms and took a sip of water from his glass.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," the agent replied cautiously. After a moment's thought, he prompted, "do you want to talk about Kate tonight?"

"Have you figured out who's responsible?" the younger man countered, his eyes gleaming. He was leaning forward eagerly.

"No…"

"Then, no," he patronized, "I don't want to talk about Kate tonight." He sat back in his seat.

"And if I had said yes?" Peter inquired out of curiosity.

"I'd try to distract you from having this talk," the con artist admitted.

"Neal…" There was a warning quality to the agent's voice, but it was not a threat.

"I miss her," he said finally, gazing at his hands, which lay awkwardly in his lap. "It's worse than when I couldn't find her, when Fowler had her." He looked up at Peter hesitantly. "It isn't getting any easier. Isn't it supposed to get easier?"

"I don't know," the agent replied softly. "Maybe it takes longer than a few months."

"Yeah, maybe," Neal agreed weakly, his doubt evident in the tone of his voice.

The apartment was silent for a few seconds. "Keep going," Peter encouraged.

"About what?" the younger man asked.

"What happened this morning… when you had that panic attack?"

"_That's_ what that was," Neal answered sheepishly.

"You're not – _embarrassed_? This is a first for the charismatic Neal Caffrey," the agent joked.

"No one wants to be seen at their worst, Peter," he stated.

"So that was your worst?" the older man sought clarification.

"I guess it makes my top ten." Neal sighed. "If I try to tell you about what happened, I'll just freak out again."

"How do you know that?" Peter asked. "Maybe it's a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"I don't want to find out." He shook his head for emphasis.

"Just try," the agent requested. "I won't let you panic, okay?"

"You know you can't promise that," the con man pointed out. He felt the tremors subtly coming back, rumbling through his core and washing over his extremities.

Peter's gaze was reassuring. "You told me once you trusted me. Please, trust me now."

"I was drugged then," Neal said.

"If I give you your meds now, you'll talk until you fall asleep?" the agent inferred.

The younger man gambled that the sleeping pills would kick in before he could reveal anything too personal. "Yes, sir," he nodded obediently, conveying sincerity with his wide eyes.

Peter dispensed two pills into his consultant's outstretched hand, pretending to ignore the trembling. Neal swallowed them with a gulp of water and relaxed back into his chair. "Now, speak," the agent ordered.

The younger man inhaled deeply to steady himself. "You're familiar with the intake procedures at supermax prisons," he began. Peter nodded. "The medical evaluation comes after the strip search. You're already naked, so they just keep the line moving." He swallowed audibly. "The doctors treated us like livestock. There was always more than one guard watching. The female guards would look, too." He paused, running his hand through his hair in an attempt to self-soothe. "He insisted on using a rectal thermometer, more than once, and it wasn't gentle." Peter tried to stay calm and quiet, desperately controlling his expression so Neal could continue his account. "He would try to… excite the inmates. You know," he said delicately, "arouse us."

"He sexually assaulted you, Neal?" the agent interrupted furiously.

"No, no, Peter, he never touched me like that," the con man answered quickly as an uncomfortably warm sensation spread through his chest. "The doctor seemed to get a kick out of knowing he could have that effect on people. He waited 'til I was-" _God, this is so awkward_, he thought, "-and then he measured my blood pressure and made some comment about how high it was, how fast my pulse was. He listened to my chest and made jokes about my heart racing and how heavy I was breathing – but I couldn't help it! He did that to me!" Neal felt himself becoming more and more agitated.

"Easy, Neal," Peter reassured. "You're okay now. Take another deep breath."

The younger man forced the air into his lungs and continued. "When he checked in my mouth, he tried to make me deep-throat his finger." He nearly gagged remembering the feel of latex against his palate. He began to feel dizzy; he was unable to discern whether it was due to the effects of the medicine or simply out of fear. "Peter, I can't do this anymore," he confessed, meeting the agent's gaze with his wild, frightened eyes.

"Okay, Neal. We're done for tonight." The agent got up from the couch and knelt beside his consultant, resting a comforting hand on his knee. "Deep breaths," he reminded with a gentle squeeze. He stood up and helped the younger man to his bed, removing his shoes, socks, jacket, and tie. Neal fumbled with the buttons of his shirt while Peter pulled back the bed covers for the con man to slip beneath.

"Can I have the rest of my water?" he asked.

"Sure," the agent answered, handing him the glass. Neal sipped it slowly, handing it back to Peter and reclining against the headboard when he had finished.

"Thanks, Peter," he said.

"You're welcome, Neal," the older man replied. "Get some rest, alright? I'll come by before lunch tomorrow."

"Kay," the con artist mumbled. His eyelids had drooped almost entirely closed.

"You're braver than you give yourself credit for," Peter said softly on his way out the door.


	16. Chapter 16

Peter descended the staircase to find June reading a book on the couch. She looked up when she heard his footsteps approaching. "Peter," she greeted. "How are you?"

"Fine, and you?" he replied politely.

"Very well, thank you," she answered. "And how is our dear Neal tonight?"

"He's asleep," he responded. "He has been taking sleeping pills to help with that. I kept him at my place last night so Elizabeth and I could watch him." He paused. "Thanks for sending his clothes over, by the way."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all!" she assured him. "Was he better last night, with the medicine?"

"He was able to sleep, but he was still a little bit upset and confused. You may have to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't sleepwalk out of the house," the agent explained.

"I'll lock the doors," June said with a smile. After taking in Peter's expression, she added, "that won't stop him, will it?"

"I'll be checking his tracking data all night," he answered. "If he steps outside, someone will pick him up and bring him back." His voice was confident.

"If this is what it takes…" she trailed off. "The sound of him crying and screaming in the night has haunted this house for too long."

Peter processed this with a sigh. "If you'll excuse me, it's late, and I have a phone call I need to make." They said their goodbyes and he agent headed to his car. He got in and pulled out his smart phone, dialing a number he found scribbled on Neal's fridge.

It rang twice. "How did you get this number?" the answering voice was incredulous.

"Relax," he replied, exasperated. "Not from the bureau."

"What do you want, Suit?" said the voice through the store-bought-paid-in-cash burner phone.

"You knew, and you didn't say anything."

"Knew what?" asked Mozzie.

"About the medical evaluation Neal underwent in prison," clarified Peter.

"He didn't tell me anything about that," the eccentric man replied.

"But you suspected, and you located the surveillance video and any pertinent records, and had them removed," the agent accused. He knew full well what the little guy was capable of.

Mozzie sighed. "He begged me, Suit – _pleaded_. He made me swear not to watch it."

"How much could you see?" Peter asked.

"Technically, none of it. The video was blacked out, but there was an audio recording of the incident. There's nothing to identify any of the people in it except for Neal's inmate number."

"I need that recording," the agent pressed.

"He made me promise to destroy it after I retrieved it," Mozzie answered.

"I need your secret copy of it, then. I know you made one," Peter said. "Please."

There was a loud exhalation on the other end. "My storage unit – six P.M. tomorrow. The mockingbird I saw in the park was chestnut brown." The burner phone went silent. The agent knew it had been tossed in the garbage by now. He drove home and climbed into bed next to his wife, who was already asleep.

Peter woke to the faint beeping of his laptop. He rolled over and looked at the screen, where a red circle labeled 9305A was blinking urgently. "Damn it!" he whispered, picking up his smart phone. The clock read 3:16 A.M. for a moment before the display changed to show the caller ID.

"Boss," Jones' voice said. "Caffrey's on the move."

"He's sleepwalking, Jones," Peter replied. "Tail him from a safe distance until I get there. Do not spook him and do not wake him up, alright?"

"Got it," the agent answered, hanging up. Peter quickly got changed and got into his Taurus, driving in the direction indicated by the Marshalls' electronic monitoring software. After a few moments he pulled up in front of a too-familiar building with a pajama-clad figure bent over in an attempt to pick the lock.

Peter slowly approached the front door of the glass skyscraper, being careful not to startle the man. A quick glance down at the man's ankle confirmed his identity. "Neal, buddy, put down the pocketknife," he said softly. "Why are you trying to break into Macmillan, Lyle, and Walters at three in the morning?"

"Peter!" Neal slurred, looking up into the agent's face. "I'm gathering evidence!" He waved the knife around clumsily to emphasize his point.

The older man grabbed him by the wrist, taking the knife away. "Whoa, Neal," he said. "Where did you get this?"

"Found it in June's coffee table," he answered slowly, still slurring his words in his sleep. "I didn't steal it – _borrowed_ it."

"Come on, you shouldn't be here in the middle of the night," Peter continued. "Let's get you back in bed."

"Okay," the con artist acquiesced, elongating the word for dramatic effect. He didn't resist as Peter helped him into the car and buckled him in. Within five minutes he had passed out cold, his head drooping forward in the passenger seat. The agent behind the wheel was careful to avoid potholes and bumps in the road so as not to jostle the sleeping man. Soon he parked on the street outside of June's home.

"Neal," he whispered loudly, shaking his shoulder gently. The consultant did not stir. Peter sighed and stepped around to the passenger side of the car to unbuckle Neal's seat belt. He was still soundly asleep, so the older man had no choice except to drag his dead weight up the stairs and toss him back into bed. He turned to leave, but changed his mind after a moment's thought; he kicked off his shoes and lay down on the couch, closing his eyes. _Should've left a note for El_, was his last thought before drifting off to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

**Tag to 2x10 Burke's Seven**

Peter slowly eased his eyes open, acutely aware of a dull ache in his neck. He sat up and rubbed it gingerly, gradually becoming aware of his surroundings. It was then he remembered why he had woken up on Neal's couch. He looked over to see that his favorite felon was still asleep in his bed, snoring faintly, one arm lying across his stomach as it rose and fell evenly with each breath. The agent checked his watch; it was nine forty-five. Elizabeth must be awake and wondering where he was by now. Hoping she had figured it out, he grabbed for his phone and sent her a text. _Neal sleepwalked across town in the middle of the night. We're at June's. Azaleas._ She would know what that meant.

He rambled over to Neal's refrigerator, hoping to find some orange juice or a bagel or something to eat. However, as he should have anticipated, considering the consultant's tastes, the fridge was filled instead with an assortment of artisan breads, organic fruits and juices, and free-range eggs. It was much too fancy for the agent's palate. He poked around in the cabinets, managing to locate a banana and some organic peanut butter. The separation of the oils in the peanut butter almost made him change his mind, until he heard a voice mumble, "just stir it a little. Tastes fine."

"You're awake," the agent commented.

"It's harder to eat breakfast asleep," Neal quipped. He rubbed his eyes lazily. "Why am I so tired this morning?" he wondered absently.

"You went for a stroll across town in your pajamas at three in the morning, Neal," Peter informed him. "I found you trying to break into Lyle's brokerage with a pocketknife."

The con man's carefully controlled expression was bemused. "Did I…?"

"Did you what?" the agent asked. "We stopped you before you could do anything stupid, like pick the lock or stab anybody." He parodied the encounter using the banana for effect.

"I would never," Neal answered quickly, his brow creasing. "You know that, Peter."

"You better not," his handler responded, taking a deliberate bite of the banana. The message was clear.

"I didn't… say anything else, did I?" the younger man inquired cautiously. He had a loaf of nine-grain bread in one hand and a bottle of pomegranate juice in the other.

"Nothing embarrassing or incriminating that I was able to discern," Peter assured him. He put a glass and a knife on the counter for his partner to use.

"Good. Thanks," he replied, pouring out the juice and spreading marmalade onto the bread. The pair snacked in silence, the con man's trademark smile amplifying the sunlight in the room.

Peter's phone buzzed. "Morning, Diana," he answered.

"Boss," she replied. "I heard it was an eventful night."

"Yes, yes it was," the senior agent chuckled. "Everything's alright now. How are the preparations going for the charity event tonight?"

"The paperwork on Caffrey's alias just came through. We'd like to brief him before lunch."

"Good, we will be there," Peter answered for the both of them. "Has the cash come through?"

"Hughes has authorized twenty thousand dollars. He felt that was more than generous enough," Diana elaborated. Neal made a face.

"It should be fine," the older man said, partially in response to his agent and partially to placate his consultant. "We'll be in within an hour or so." The agents hung up.

"Stingy," Neal grumbled.

"A twenty thousand dollar donation is plenty, Neal!" Peter rebuked. "You can use your own funds next time if you feel that strongly." The con man rolled his eyes. "Get dressed so we can head into the office. There's a shiny new alias waiting for you."

The pair made it to the bureau before lunch, where Jones filled the consultant in on the details of his new alias. Neal spent most of the afternoon familiarizing himself with the history and personal habits of this identity. He also pored over the bureau's files on the Macmillans, the brokerage, and anything he could find that might help him slip undercover tonight.

Peter noticed the younger man working, and was struck with the thought that he was putting more effort into this than he had ever observed in the past. He considered approaching his partner, but he didn't want to risk breaking his concentration. He only hoped that Neal wasn't beginning to doubt his own abilities.

The next time the con artist looked out the window at the New York skyline, the sun was beginning to set over the Hudson River to the west. It was eerily beautiful, but felt almost ominous at the same time. Neal shook the thought from his mind when Jones walked over with a freshly dry-cleaned tuxedo.

"Custom-made for tonight," the junior agent commented as he pressed it into the consultant's eager hands.

"Just for me? You shouldn't have," Neal joked.

"Actually, we _did_ have to," Jones said, raising an eyebrow. "The buttons are wired to record audio, video, and track your location down to a range of ten meters."

"So it wasn't tailored." The con man made no attempt to hide his disappointment.

Jones just snorted and walked back to his desk. "When you've got it on, Burke will remove your anklet," he called over his shoulder.

Neal went into the bathroom to change into the tux. When he was ready, he stepped in front of the mirror, admiring how he looked in the sleek black fabric. Twisting to the side, he took in the view from behind. He smiled at his reflection and whispered confidently to himself, "I look good!"

The consultant nearly jumped through the ceiling when he heard Peter's stifled laugh from behind. "Shit, Peter!" he exclaimed.

"You're something, you know that?" the agent replied, still chuckling to himself. He cracked the door open and shouted out, "he's in the men's room putting on a show!" Jones' and Diana's laughter floated in through the door and echoed in the enclosed space.

"Thanks," Neal answered sarcastically, half-attempting to burn a hole through his handler with a death stare. "Can we go now?"

"Yes, Mr. Bond, your car is waiting," Peter jibed.

"You got me a car?" Neal inquired, voice full of excitement.

"Not a limo. A Towncar," the agent replied.

Neal sighed. "It'll do," he said. "And my donation?" he asked.

"Inside your left jacket pocket," Peter answered, "along with your identification and some cash for the bar."

"The anklet?" he questioned further, holding his leg out for the agent to see. Peter removed it and set it down on his desk. "You're a good man, Peter," the consultant replied with a wide grin.

"The van will be parked in front of the dry cleaner's a block away, just in case," the agent informed him as they entered the elevator to head down to the street. "Try not to draw any undue attention to yourself. The Deveraux Foundation will not appreciate having its donors charmed out of their personal information." He looked at his watch. "It's 5:45 – you better get going. Good luck, James Thatcher," he instructed as Neal exited the elevator and got into the waiting car. Peter waited until the Towncar had pulled out of sight.

"Jones, Diana," he said into his phone.

"We're both here, boss," they answered. They must have been on the speakerphone in his office.

"I need you in the surveillance van tonight – without me," he informed them. "I know it's bad timing, but there is something more important I need to do, and I trust both of you," he continued.

"It's for Neal," Diana's voice said, having made the connection.

"The music box?" Jones' voice guessed.

"No, not this time," the senior agent answered.

"The little guy," the agents chorused.

"He has something I need to hear," Peter confirmed. "It will help us get Neal out of his head."

"We gotcha, boss," Jones replied after a brief silence. Both parties hung up.


	18. Chapter 18

Peter accessed the tracking button on Neal's tuxedo. The GPS had him still safely en route to the Deveraux Foundation charity dinner. Breathing a sigh of relief, the agent got into his Taurus and headed the opposite direction, to the storage facility where he had once met Mozzie. He arrived at exactly six o'clock and walked in, muttering loudly about mockingbirds under his breath.

He heard the little man exhale with a huff. "But what _color_ was it?" he asked, mildly frustrated.

"It's chestnut brown, Moz," the agent replied impatiently.

Mozzie stepped out into the light. "Suit," he greeted simply.

"Can I see the tape?" Peter asked.

"No small talk?" Mozzie replied, slightly offended. "We are acquaintances now, after all."

"Moz," said Peter, giving an exasperated sigh. "I'm on a tight schedule tonight."

"Is Neal undercover right now?" the smaller man inquired. He checked his mental calendar. "Oh! The Deveraux dinner?"

"Yes," the agent answered, not bothering to ask how he knew about the charity dinner. "Jones and Diana are watching him, but you know how he gets at these fancy things-"

"You don't have to remind me," Mozzie replied with a chuckle. He fished around in his pocket, producing a cassette tape. "I made you a copy of the audio of the incident you requested," he continued cryptically. "Make sure you dispose of this appropriately when you are finished with it."

"You have my word," Peter answered sincerely.

"You can't ever discuss the contents with him, Suit," the little guy pressed onward. "He'll know it was me, and he'll think I betrayed him."

"If he doesn't talk about this, he won't ever get over it," the agent replied passionately.

"You have to get _him_ to tell _you_ – if you bring up the details from this recording, he will get suspicious and shut down."

Peter exhaled loudly. "Alright." He pocketed the tape. "Thank you for this."

"I was never here," Mozzie replied, bowing and backing into the darkness. He disappeared silently into the night while Peter went back out to his car. The agent left his car by central park and continued uptown on the subway to where the surveillance van was parked.

The knock on the back door of the van startled Jones out of his half-asleep state. He cracked the door open slowly until he was able to identify his boss and let him inside.

"Good, you're here," Diana greeted him. "Caffrey's being… well, Caffrey."

"Has he gotten anything out of Lydia Macmillan yet?" Peter asked.

"Bits and pieces," she replied.

"But there's more to it," Jones asserted. "Neal will get us something good." His tone was confident. He handed Peter a spare headset so he could hear what was going on in time with the video feed on the monitor.

* * *

Neal was in his element tonight. The combination of the tuxedo, the elaborately decorated venue, the champagne, and of course the six-course meal he knew was coming had him practically floating on a cloud. Between the sizable donation and his effervescent charm, he knew he would be able to convince Mrs. Macmillan to tell him anything he wanted to know.

Neal greeted the charity's treasurer in plain view of his mark, making sure she overheard the amount of his generous check. He was careful not to let his name slip and not to let her approach him just then; he would appear at the bar next to her later, ensuring a more intimate conversation.

The con man mingled for a few minutes, eavesdropping on some conversations here and there to pass the time. He spent another several minutes admiring a Renoit hanging in the ballroom before he decided to meander towards the bar, three feet from where Lydia Macmillan was sitting.

"Ketel one, please," he said to the bartender.

"You have good taste, sir," Mrs. Macmillan commented when he received his drink.

"Thank you, madam," Neal replied with a smile. "Lovely evening, isn't it?"

"Yes," the older woman answered. "I always have a wonderful time at the Deveraux dinner every year. Such a good cause, you know."

"Absolutely," confirmed Neal. "It is a privilege to be able to make a difference in a child's life this way."

"You made quite the contribution, mister…" Mrs. Macmillan trailed off, searching for his name.

"Thatcher," Neal filled in. "James Thatcher, of Hudson Realty."

"Lydia Macmillan," she replied as Neal clasped her hand, raising it to his lips.

"What is it you do for a living, Mrs. Macmillan?" the con man asked, secretly glad he had worked his way inside.

"My husband, Geoffrey Macmillan, is a partner in a brokerage on Wall Street," she answered. "I am – how do the kids say it? – I believe that makes me his MILF."

"Surely you mean his trophy wife?" Neal corrected her quickly, hoping to spare her any embarrassment at her linguistic mix-up.

"Ah, yes, that's it! Thank you, mister Thatcher," she said with a grateful smile. "You see why educating our youth is one thing I feel passionately about."

They continued on in light conversation for a while, the bartender continually refilling their glasses as they sipped their drinks down. When they were sufficiently buzzed, Neal led his mark to the crowded dance floor. As they danced, the topic soon drifted to business, when Mrs. Macmillan revealed that her husband was worried about the brokerage declaring bankruptcy and that he suspected his partner, William Lyle, was planning to retire before that could happen.

"Lyle?" Neal inquired. "_He's_ your husband's partner? The one accused of insider trading?"

"It was all a big misunderstanding," Lydia assured him. "William was acquitted, and has been doing great work ever since."

"He must be very dedicated to his job," the con man began suavely. He twirled his dance partner gently.

"Oh, yes, he loves the brokerage!" the older woman gushed. "He was always so busy that he never married. His work is all he has." She looked down at her feet, which were almost stepping on her partner's toes, then back up at Neal. "That's why it came as such a surprise when my Geoff told me he thought William was going to retire."

"Did he ever actually say he was planning to do so?" the consultant asked.

Lydia Macmillan thought. "No, I cannot recall his saying so explicitly," she replied. "Curious…" The dancing stopped, and the guests took their seats as the six-course meal began.

Neal had all the information he needed as he enjoyed his spinach salad, crab stuffed swordfish, long grain wild rice, bourbon-glazed carrots, mashed parsnips, and more. Clearly Geoffrey Macmillan was lying to his wife about more than just the affair. "Well, with all the success of the Thaynic Project…" he began.

"My Geoff says the project is going to make us quite wealthy," Mrs. Macmillan cut in, her voice swelling with pride. "That's why I had to come here alone tonight – he's such a workaholic," she chortled. "Not that I mind, with a gentleman such as yourself here to keep me company!"

The night eventually wound down and Neal was able to sneak out to the van without anyone noticing. "You got all that, right?" he asked the agents in the van, propping his feet up on the instrument panels.

"Yes, we did," Peter answered, strategically clasping the anklet back around his consultant's leg with a satisfying click.

"I think Lyle's the victim this time, Peter," he summarized rapidly. "We've been looking at this all wrong!"

"Diana, I need you to tail the Macmillans for the next couple of days. Take the new probie with you if you need more manpower," Peter ordered. "Jones, I need all of the Macmillans' and Cynthia Walters' financial records. Flag their accounts and let me know if there are any significant deposits or withdrawals."

"Got it, boss," they said in unison. The van began to move back towards the bureau.

"I left my car by Central Park," Peter informed Jones, who was driving. "Drop me and Caffrey there. We're going to start tracking Cynthia Walters' movements tomorrow."

The two men got out of the van when they had arrived safely within Neal's radius and in sight of Peter's Taurus. "I know it's late and it's been a long night," the agent said as they drove to June's place, "but you're not off the hook."

"For what?" Neal exclaimed. "I was very well behaved tonight!"

"Yes, you were," Peter confirmed. "But we agreed you would talk to me. It's not a punishment, Neal," he explained to his scowling consultant. "It's for your own good."

"What do you want me to tell you tonight?" he asked.

"What are you ready to talk about?" his handler countered.

Neal pondered the question for nearly a minute before he answered. "I think I'm ready to talk about Kate now," he said.


	19. Chapter 19

**Tag to 2x11 Forging Bonds**

Peter blinked deliberately. "Really?" he asked in a serious tone, questioning what he had heard. After a moment's pause, he added flatly, "you're conning me."

Neal smirked. "I'm not conning you, Peter," he began. "You're not going to leave me alone until we have this conversation."

"You're right about that," the agent agreed. "You're sure tonight is the night for this discussion?"

"No time like the present," the con man quipped.

"And you're okay telling me this? I know how personal it is, Neal… you could see Dr. Ford just once-"

"No! No shrinks," Neal insisted. "Please."

The older man nodded. "Alright." He took a seat at Neal's table, while his consultant leaned back against the kitchen counter.

"Before we begin," he said, "I need immunity for something."

"Neal-" Peter's tone revealed more than his words did.

"Just listen to me," the younger man interjected. "I can't tell you the whole story any other way. It's not _really_ bad, I swear."

Reluctantly, the agent's badge found its way to the tabletop. "Define 'really bad.'"

"I'll get to that later. I promise," he added. He drew in a slow breath to calm his nerves. "You already know how Kate and I met."

"Yes, you filled me in on that much, the night we stayed up discussing Adler," the agent confirmed.

"The sommelier that night was a bit sub-par, if I recall," Neal joked.

"He was on a budget," Peter replied in self-defense.

"Fair enough, I suppose," the con man acquiesced. "What more do you want to know about her?"

The agent was quiet. "Tell me why you loved her," he said finally.

_He doesn't waste any time, does he_, Neal scoffed to himself. "You're right, that's personal," he replied.

Peter could see his friend was about to shut him out, but he didn't see what other options he had left. "Okay, we'll start smaller. What would you say to her if she was still here?"

The con man was deep in thought, forming his response carefully. "I would tell her how much I'll always love her… that I'm going to find who did this to her…" He swallowed. "That I'm trying to get out of the game and be a better man because of her," he admitted. He felt emotions stirring inside of him, yet he desperately hoped they weren't as obvious to Peter as he thought they were.

"I'm sure that would make her proud," the agent said quietly, reassuringly.

"We always wanted the white picket fence. I just never imagined she wouldn't be living in it with me." He shook his lowered head. "It still doesn't feel real. Some days I forget she's gone." He made his way over to his dresser, pulling a small leather pouch out of his sock drawer. He tossed it at Peter, who caught it with a quizzical expression.

"What's this?" he asked.

"My confession," Neal answered. "Open it."

The older man opened the pouch gently and dumped the contents into his left palm. The item was not a totally unexpected one, _per se_, though it certainly was an object to be admired. With his right hand, he gently examined the two carat, marquis-cut diamond set into the delicate white gold band. It was exquisite, classic, yet modern – just like Kate had been. "Did she know you were going to propose?" he questioned simply.

"No," the con man replied. Peter continued to examine the ring, turning it over to all angles. "You realize I stole it for her, right?"

"I had my suspicions," the agent responded. "Is there a cubic zirconium in a jewelry display case somewhere?"

"I'm sure Tiffany & Co. has sold it since then, probably without realizing it wasn't authentic," he answered honestly.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Tiffany's. Of course."

"She deserved it," Neal replied, the sincerity burning in his eyes. "She deserved better than I could give her."

"Did Mozzie know?" the agent asked.

"Course he did," his CI retorted. "He set the zirconium."

"That's not what I meant, Neal," he replied. "Was he going to be the best man?" he inquired, barely able to contain his curiosity. His answer was a stern look. "Did he get ordained on the _internet_?" Peter was barely able to hold his laughter in.

"Mozzie… is a man of many beliefs," was the only answer Neal could muster with a straight face. His handler guffawed loudly, unable to contain himself any longer. He waited patiently until his partner got all the giggles out of his system.

"When?" the agent asked when his composure returned.

"After the anklet came off," he answered. "After Mentor, when everything died down."

"I'm sorry," Peter said softly. The con man knew he meant it.

"I managed to locate the woman whose fiancé bought an expensive forgery," he continued.

"You're going to switch it back?" the older man questioned. "You'd do that?"

"She deserves the real thing, Peter," Neal replied. "The way she acted when she was with him – I knew it was time for me to let go of it."

"That's really big of you," the agent said. He hadn't noticed how much the former convict had moved on over the past few days until now. A slight swell of pride filled his chest, along with the sense that he didn't need to worry so much about his partner anymore. He put the ring back into the pouch and drew it closed, setting it on the table in front of where Neal had sat.

"It's just a ring," he said, trying to minimize the vulnerability he now felt.

"We both know it represents more than that," Peter insisted, trying to meet his consultant's eyes.

"I still love her," Neal asserted, trying with all the fire in his heart to hold onto the memory.

"I know," the agent said comfortingly. "Moving on isn't about falling out of love. It's about loving yourself too."

"Uhh, Peter?" the con artist questioned uncomfortably.

"Read it in one of El's women's magazines," the older man explained quickly. "It was lying open… seemed to fit…" Now it was Neal's turn to burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

"You _read_ that in _Cosmo_?" the younger man asked, incredulous.

"It worked," Peter mumbled. "It obviously made you feel better."

"Touchy-feely does not work for you," Neal stated.

"You're right," the agent confirmed. "That felt weird."

Neal checked the time on his cell phone. "Gimme the drugs, Peter," he said, making a beckoning motion with the fingers on his outstretched hand.

Peter fished in his pocket for the prescription bottle and dropped two pills into Neal's hand. The consultant quickly washed them down with a glass of water before settling back down at the kitchen table.

"You going to sleepwalk anywhere tonight?" the agent inquired casually.

"Not planning on it," his favorite felon responded. His demeanor visibly sank when he added, "who's going to be in the car outside all night?"

"Diana," the older man replied. "It's for your own safety. You know the Marshalls would snatch you up without any explanation if you were out of range," he justified.

"You _do_ see how messed up this is, right? Our whole division stays awake making sure I stay asleep?" Neal pointed out.

"If you didn't pick locks under the influence, we wouldn't have this ironic situation on our hands," Peter retorted. "I'd just handcuff you to the bed, lock you in your room and be done with it."

"Kinky," the con man smirked.

"Shut it," the agent warned. "Get some rest. We start tracking Walters tomorrow. This could be the break in the case." He stood up and walked towards the door to let himself out as Neal got ready for bed.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: The content of this chapter is once again somewhat graphic, but the depiction is based solely on audio, no visuals (OK, you guessed it, it's the tape). You have been cautioned.**

Peter sat still in the Taurus for a while, just processing his thoughts, before he even shifted the car out of park. The cassette tape in his pocket felt like lead against his body, like some twisted analogy to the severity of the situation he was walking into head-first. His old walkman was under the passenger seat, and he was tempted to listen to it right away, partially out of curiosity and partially to get it over with; but he didn't dare risk Neal walking out and catching him. He decided to drive downtown for a few blocks before changing direction and driving towards Brooklyn, safely out of the con man's radius and away from any connections either of them might have. The agent parked in front of an all-night diner he had never heard of, but which claimed to have the best malts in town on a bright neon window sign.

By now, it was nearly midnight; the city nightlife was in full swing. Peter locked his car doors and was silently grateful for the tinted windows. Reclining the seat, he put on the headphones and clicked the tape into position. After taking a slow breath to prepare himself, the agent pressed play.

At first, there was nothing but silence and the clicking of the tape player mechanism until the recording began. Then there was a bit of static. Finally, the recording commenced.

"Next inmate, please," a voice said. Then Peter heard high-pitched giggling – women's laughter.

"Pretty, isn't he," a second, deeper, voice said. The laughter swelled once more.

"Quiet, please," the first voice spoke again. "Nurse – the thermometer, please."

"Here you are, doctor," a third voice answered. The pitch of the voice was ambiguous, such that Peter could not tell if the nurse was male or female.

"Bend over, please," the first man – the doctor – instructed.

"Isn't there a better way?" a smooth voice asked quietly. Instantly, Peter knew whose it was.

"This is the most accurate. Now, hands on the table and bend forward." There was an uncomfortable grunt as the command was obeyed. The next sound was a low, sad moan punctuated rhythmically by louder groans. The sound went on for nearly sixty seconds before it ended with a gasp.

"The reading is normal," the doctor announced. "The cuff, please," he ordered the nurse. "Have a seat on the table so we can get your vitals."

"You give that doctor any trouble…" the second voice threatened. It must have belonged to a guard.

Peter heard Neal climb onto the table, the paper crinkling as he shifted his sitting position. Next there was the sound of Velcro fastening and a whooshing as the blood pressure cuff was inflated. Then he heard the high-pitched laughter of the unwelcome audience again. He could only imagine what they could be laughing at.

"One thirty-two over ninety – mildly hypertensive," the doctor reported. "We may have to monitor this _situation_." Another chorus of sick giggling accompanied the insinuating tone. After a few moments of silence, his voice spoke again. "Pulse is 86 – slightly elevated."

Peter heard a sharp intake of breath which he assumed to be Neal. "Respiration is rapid and shallow," the doctor noted after a long silence. . Neal sucked his breath in again. Peter guessed the stethoscope must have been cold on his skin. "Deep breaths, please," the doctor ordered – as if Neal was in any condition to be able to obey! – and the tape was silent again as the doctor listened. "Normal heart sounds," he said after a moment, "but with some skipped beats and rapid rate. He may require additional monitoring."

By now, the agent could hear Neal practically hyperventilating on the tape, his breathing was so loud. _No wonder he was so scared of the doctor_, Peter thought. _He was molested by the prison doctor – on tape!_ He felt indignation welling up inside of him, threatening to burst out. He shut the tape off and ripped it from the walkman, throwing it out the window behind the Taurus. Then he thrust the car into reverse and ran it over, flattening it completely. He got out and picked up all the tiny plastic fragments, tossing them into the nearest trash can. Then he used his car key to slice the tape into uneven three-inch segments and threw them out as well. He got back into the Taurus and sped home, where he barged in through the front door and embraced a stunned Elizabeth.

"What on earth is going on, Peter?" she asked him, trapped in his arms but not struggling.

"I heard what they did to Neal in prison," he growled into her ear.

"Shh," she soothed him, rubbing up and down his back in broad motions with one hand and running the other through his hair.

"I heard the tape, El," he continued, softening under her touch. "It was horrible. I couldn't finish it."

"Shh, it's alright now," she whispered. "Neal is okay. They can't hurt him anymore."

"We can't ever let him go back," he insisted fervently.

"No, he's not going back to prison," Elizabeth confirmed in a calm voice. "He has you to look out for him now." She gave him a squeeze when she felt him begin to tremble. She pulled back, examining his expression. "It's really late, honey. You need some rest. C'mon."

Peter did not protest as his wife took his hand and led him up the stairs. She sat him gently on their bed and began to undress him, since he was still too much in shock to do it himself. When he was comfortable, she slid her husband under the covers and climbed in next to him. She snuggled as close to his body as she could, hoping her presence would make him feel calm and secure as they drifted off to sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

Peter squeezed his eyes tightly shut, afraid to open them to the rays of sun streaming in through the bedroom window. The events of the previous evening had been like a nightmare from which he couldn't wake. Instead, he lay quietly and willed himself to go back to sleep. Next to him, he felt Elizabeth stir in her sleep, rolling over towards him. She was soft and warm, breathing slowly and evenly against his side. He put his arm around her protectively and sighed.

"Please don't go to work today," she whispered almost inaudibly.

"I have to, El," he breathed back. "Neal and I are so close to figuring this out." _Neal,_ he thought. _He doesn't know that I know._

"Are you going to tell him?" his wife asked, naturally in synch with his thoughts.

"I can't," he answered. "He'll be upset if he knew I heard it."

"Good luck fooling a con man," she said, rolling over to continue snoozing.

Peter checked his smart phone. There was a text from Diana at 6 am that read _All clear_. The agent smiled, relieved that Neal's night was uneventful. Soon he was ready, grabbing a leftover muffin and a thermos of coffee on his way out the door. When he arrived at June's, Neal was already sitting on the steps outside, enjoying the morning sunshine.

"Beautiful day, Peter," he commented, his grin nearly outshining the rays of the sun.

"Get in," the agent ordered, rolling his eyes. "We're waiting for Walters to make a call to Macmillan. Jones put a trace on both their phones."

"So when they wire the cash to Lyle, we can connect them to the transfer," the consultant guessed. "Good plan!"

"If we tie them to the money, we can get search warrants and question them," Peter continued. "This is our shot to turn them on one another and get the real truth out."

"Oh, goody, an arrest!" the con man joked.

"Neal?"

"Yes, Peter?" Neal answered.

"Don't mock me before I've had my coffee."

"Noted." The consultant watched as Peter took a long swig from the mug before they drove to the office. "So, where's mine?"

"Wherever you left it," the agent replied, not in the mood for any nonsense.

"Someone's grumpy," Neal griped. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," the older man responded, diverting his attention to the rear-view mirrors.

"Nothing's wrong, or you don't want to tell me what's wrong?" the con artist pressed.

"We are not doing this right now, okay?" Peter nearly snapped. "I need to crack this case."

"You mean, _we_ need to crack this case," Neal pointed out.

"Yes, we do. Let's go," he said as they parked and went up to the elevators.

Hughes was waiting for the pair when they stepped off the elevator. "Jones flagged the bank transfers out of Walters' and Macmillan's accounts – they cleared first thing this morning," he announced. "He and Berrigan are bringing them in now." He smiled excitedly. "As soon as the deposits arrive in Lyle's account, we'll pick him up too."

"So this is it?" Neal asked.

"Good work, Burke, Caffrey," he nodded to each in turn, and returned to his office. Neal thought he could see the attorney general's face in the video chat window on Hughes' computer through the glass walls. No wonder he was in such a hurry.

"Is that-" Neal asked, motioning to the computer screen.

"Yeah," Peter confirmed with a shrug, pretending to be unimpressed.

"Do they talk a lot?" the consultant asked, slightly worried that he might be the subject of the discussion.

"Now and then," his handler replied. "It's not that unusual. Why?"

"Just wondering," the younger man replied, heading back to his desk. By all appearances, he had immersed himself in paperwork; in actuality, he was trying to figure out why Peter was acting strangely. Neal spied discreetly through the glass walls of the office where the agent sat in his desk chair, elbows propping his bowed head up on the desk while his fingers knotted in his hair. _What's got Peter so stressed?_ he wondered.

When Neal looked up again, the glass office doors opened and Jones and Diana walked in with Cynthia Walters and Geoffrey Macmillan. The two partners were exchanging knowing glances and trying not to bicker openly with each other. The con man smiled to himself, knowing that those two agents would be able to extract the truth pretty quickly. He sure wouldn't want to be interrogated by either of them. It was memorable enough being interrogated by Peter Burke, as he recalled from his own arrest. Fortunately, he hadn't had a nightmare since the first time he took the sleeping pills three days ago, so there was no need to worry about Peter's face haunting him in his sleep.

Just then, Diana beckoned him with the double-finger point. She had a twisted smile on her face that made Neal suspicious, but he followed anyway.

"Wanna help me interrogate Walters?" she inquired.

"What, she's not your type?" the con man countered, barely dodging the agent's carefully aimed elbow.

"Do you, or do you not?" she replied firmly.

"I'd love to help," he answered, smiling widely.

"That right there is why I asked you," she replied, poking his cheek with a finger. They stepped into the room where Cynthia Walters was waiting.

"Miss Walters-" Diana began.

"May we call you Cynthia?" Neal cut in, turning up his charm from _stun_ to _kill_.

Cynthia blinked. "He can," she answered sweetly. Clearly the con man had achieved the desired effect on her. Diana shot him an unamused expression.

"Tell us why you and your partner, mister Macmillan, made fifty thousand dollar deposits into your other partner, mister Lyle's account every Monday," the agent questioned, wasting no time in uncovering the truth.

"Geoffrey and I owed William some money," she lied coolly. "We were repaying him according to a schedule we arranged."

"We know about the Thaynic Project, Cynthia," Neal informed her in a sympathetic tone. "We know Lyle was extorting the both of you."

The businesswoman's voice faltered. "He said he would tell our clients and the shareholders if we didn't pay him!" she exclaimed desperately.

"Tell them what?" Diana asked.

"The brokerage was headed for bankruptcy," she replied, her answers becoming emotional. "William said if we didn't support the company, he would tell everyone why it was going under."

"Because you were sleeping with your married partner and your financial judgments were clouded?" the agent continued, hoping to push the woman over the edge into confessing.

"He was going to tell Lydia!" she wailed. "That meddling, old-money bitch! She doesn't love Geoffrey the way I do!" She sniffled and fumbled in her purse for a tissue. "Geoff was going to leave her for me, I know it."

"You really think he was going to leave his wife for you?" Neal asked. "Men say that all the time, and then go back home to their families. Especially now that he needs her money with the brokerage going under…"

"I'm sure Geoffrey is confessing right now so he can get a deal," Diana said.

"Confessing to _what_?" Cynthia cried. "We didn't do anything wrong! William is the one who extorted us!"

"But it was you who embezzled the money that was pulling your brokerage under," Neal pointed out. "Show her the evidence, Agent Berrigan."

Diana laid the Thaynic Project folder on the table. "Lyle was having you followed so he could see what you were doing with his company's assets. It's all in here," she said, pounding the file with her fist for intimidation. "Now would be the time to tell us what you know, if you want leniency with the judge."

"Alright!" she exclaimed tearfully. "I took the money! But Geoff gambled it all away! It's the mafia's money now!"

"He's still a co-conspirator to the embezzlement. We'll have to charge you both," Diana informed the weeping businesswoman as she and Neal left the room to compare stories with Jones.

"What was really in that folder?" the consultant asked.

"My dry cleaning receipts," the agent replied, "and Christie's phone bill."

Neal chuckled softly. "You get points for style," he commented. "That's the most dramatic prisoner's dilemma I've ever seen."

They looked up as Jones exited the room where Geoffrey Macmillan was waiting. "He gave her up on embezzling charges," he informed them.

"Well, she sold him out on conspiracy and illegal gambling," Diana replied.

Peter walked up with the case file in his hands, overhearing the charges. "I think we can close this one, people. Arrest Lyle for extortion, and get the other two booked before the press shows up," he instructed them. "It's gonna be a media circus out there." Diana and Jones headed out to the garage to pick up Lyle, leaving Peter and Neal standing there together.


	22. Chapter 22

"Peter!" Neal snapped his fingers in front of the agent's face to get his attention. "Hello!"

"Huh?" he replied, finally aware of his surroundings.

"What's going on with you today, man?" the consultant asked, concern apparent in his eyes.

"Not now, Neal," he said dismissingly. "We need to hear the other side of the story when William Lyle shows up."

"You're acting weird because you think there's something wrong with the story?" the younger man inquired.

"No, that's not it. Stop prying," the agent scolded. Neal sighed and let the subject drop for now. He went back to his desk, formulating a plan in his head for that evening. If Peter wouldn't talk to him willingly, maybe the older man simply needed a taste of his own medicine.

The next time Neal looked up, it was to Peter's double-finger point beckoning him into the conference room just as Jones and Diana escorted William Lyle into the White Collar Unit.

"Good to see you again, mister Lyle," Peter greeted him when the three men were seated in the conference room.

"I'm afraid you gentlemen will have to wait until my lawyer arrives," was the first thing out of Lyle's mouth. "I will not answer any questions in his absence."

"Very well," the agent answered. The room fell silent as the two men engaged in an uncomfortable silent stare-down for at least ten minutes until the door opened.

"Ah, George, so good of you to come," Lyle greeted the man. "Agent Burke, this is George Friedman, my legal counsel."

"Pleasure to meet you," Peter said dryly, while Neal rolled his eyes.

"Spare me the sarcasm and tell me what you have on my client," George replied.

"We have bank records confirming that William Lyle is guilty of extortion, as well as two witnesses willing to testify against him in court in exchange for reduced sentencing," Peter explained.

"You mean to say that my client's business partners have sold him out," George clarified. "But let's let the court decide if he is guilty or not, shall we?"

"We will still need his full signed confession as evidence in the case against his colleagues," the agent insisted.

"You should probably start talking now," Neal piped in.

Lyle sighed and began. "I noticed some unusual things about Cynthia's recent behavior, so I hired a PI to follow her and take notes. He uncovered the relationship between her and Geoffrey."

"But that's not all you found out," Peter prompted.

"No," the businessman replied. "It soon came to my attention that they were embezzling from the brokerage, effectively controlling two-thirds of the company. They would have bankrupted it and forced me into early retirement."

"Well, early retirement doesn't sound so bad," Neal interjected, looking at his partner.

"That job is my life, young man!" Lyle burst out, suddenly filled with passion. "I don't have a Lydia or a Cynthia to come home to every night. I work too hard and too long to have any real friends left anymore. I have _nothing_ without my career!" He lowered his head in an attempt to retain his dignity while he broke down.

"I believe you have had enough from my client today," George said firmly. "But you see he's not a flight risk, so we will be going R.O.R. now."

Peter nodded his approval. "If he misses arraignment tomorrow morning…"

"Your threat has been noted, Agent Burke," George replied. "Come, William," he ordered, leading the man out of the building.

When they were alone once again, Neal turned to Peter. "Not often you see a grown man reduced to that state," he commented.

"No, it isn't," the agent confirmed uncomfortably. They both knew that statement was hitting too close to home. Neal wished he knew why.

Neal checked the time. "Let's head out early," he suggested. "June's invited you and Elizabeth for dinner tonight." Peter accepted, thereby setting the plan into motion. The agent dropped Neal off, then went home to change and call Elizabeth so she could get ready as well.

The seasoned con artist seized the hour or so of free time to prepare. June had agreed to host the couple for dinner (she just happened to have a prime rib in the fridge anyway) and Mozzie was willing to help run point if anything should go astray. Between the two of them, the critical lift should go down exactly as planned.

In fact, they made it all the way to dessert before Peter realized that Neal had stolen back his sleeping pills and used them to drug his handler.

"I don' believe you!" the agent exclaimed, his arm swaying as he pointed at the con man.

"You did this, Neal?" Elizabeth asked. She seemed surprised, but not upset.

He simply shrugged. "I didn't give him the full dose. Just enough to loosen him up a bit."

"For what, exactly?" she questioned, voice full of concern.

"There's something we need to discuss," Neal replied. "FBI business. Moz, will you escort the lady home?"

Mozzie stood and offered Elizabeth his arm. "Mrs. Suit," he said.

She gave Neal a stern look. "You bring him home _unharmed_ by midnight, Neal," she instructed. "And you will refrain from dosing my husband in the future."

"You have my word. And my apology," the con artist added sincerely.

"He wants to trust you, you know," she informed him before leaving with Mozzie.

June watched amusedly as Neal dragged a tipsy, drowsy federal agent up the stairs to his room. He thought he heard her say something to herself about it being bad manners to incapacitate dinner guests in front of their wives.

When he set Peter onto the couch, the agent slumped over to one side against the arm of the sofa. Neal laughed to himself and sat down across from his handler.

"Why on earth did you drug me?" the older man asked, barely slurring his words.

"You're going to tell me what's wrong," the consultant prompted gently.

"I've been drugged by a convicted felon; that's what's wrong," the agent replied.

"I'm really sorry about that, Peter, but you wouldn't tell me why you've been acting so strangely. I ran out of options," the younger man explained.

"Neal…" Peter tried to lecture his CI, but the chemicals in his system were overpowering. "I'm not supposed to tell you."

"Tell me what?" the con man asked innocently.

"Little friend said not to," the agent replied, eyelids beginning to droop.

"You and Mozzie are keeping secrets from me?" Neal asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"To protect you," Peter insisted sleepily.

"From what?" the con man demanded. "What aren't you telling me now?"

"Neal-"

"Please, Peter," he pleaded.

The agent hadn't seen him this upset since he waved a gun in Garrett Fowler's face. "I had to know what happened to you," he began, looking right into Neal's eyes. "So I asked Mozzie."

"What did he tell you?" the con man inquired. Years of practice were keeping his tone and expression unnaturally calm.

"I heard the recording," Peter admitted slowly as Neal's façade crumbled. "I'm so sorry, Neal – I had no idea-"

Neal covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes, sighing loudly. "There's a reason I didn't want you to know, Peter," he interrupted. "Now you won't be able to help thinking of me as some weak victim." He felt his breath come harder in his chest.

When he looked up again, his partner's hand was clasped firmly around his wrist. "Hey," he soothed. "I don't think you're weak, Neal. Look how far you've come from this," he pointed out.

"Yeah, having a meltdown every day is a vast improvement," the con artist retorted.

Peter patted the spot next to him on the couch with his free hand. "C'mere. You're shaking again."

"I'm fine-"

"Sit down and take a deep breath, Neal," he ordered. The younger man reluctantly obeyed, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands. He felt the agent's hand awkwardly patting the small of his back. "You're doing great."

"You know everything now," Neal said after a few minutes. "No more secrets."

"Good," Peter affirmed. "That's good."

"You're looped out of your mind right now, aren't you?" the con man asked rhetorically. Peter just nodded, grinning slightly. "I'll call you a cab. Let Elizabeth know you're on your way."

Both men made their phone calls. When the older man returned his phone to his pocket, his hand brushed against the pill bottle, reminding him.

"Neal, your meds," he called, handing him the bottle.

"What, can't open it yourself?" Neal cheeked. He took the bottle in his hand; after a moment's pause, he handed it back. "You know, I think I'll see how I do without it tonight."

"You sure?" Peter asked, concerned.

"Yeah. I'm sure," the con man replied. A horn beeped in the distance. "Let's get you into that taxi, Agent Loopy."

Peter laughed a bit too enthusiastically as his consultant helped him into the car, which drove away silently into the night.


	23. Chapter 23

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and let out a groan when his wife turned their bedroom light on. "What time is it?" he mumbled.

"It's seven o'clock. Time to wake up," Elizabeth answered. She brushed her hand across his forehead, pushing his hair out of the way. "You feeling okay, honey?"

"Ugh," he groaned.

"Hey," she whispered, rubbing her thumb back and forth across his brow. "Can you open your eyes?"

Peter slowly squinted his eyes open halfway. "The light hurts my brain," he moaned. He tried to sit up slowly, his stomach threatening to hurl.

"Do you need to stay home today?" Elizabeth asked.

"No, I just…" the agent's voice trailed off as he swayed and fell back against the headboard.

"What is it?" his wife asked insistently, moving closer to his side. She picked up her phone and started dialing. "I'm gonna kill Neal," she muttered while it rang.

"I'm just a little dizzy, hon," he said reassuringly.

"Neal?" Elizabeth addressed when the other end picked up.

"Elizabeth?" was the groggy reply. "What is it?" She had obviously disturbed his slumber.

"I need you to come over and clean up the mess you've made," she ordered matter-of-factly.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"You drugged my husband, promised to take care of him, and now he's having side effects," Elizabeth rambled, "and I have to go to work, so you need to come look after him."

"Now?"

"Get over here," was her final command before she hung up.

Neal arrived half an hour later. He passed Elizabeth about to leave as he let himself in. "I'm so sorry, Elizabeth," he began.

"You can apologize to him after he's recovered," she interjected before he could finish. She was about to leave in a huff when she stopped herself and softened. "Take good care of him, Neal. Call me if he needs anything."

Neal's smile melted any residual tension between the two friends. "Will do," he complied. He headed up the stairs to the master bedroom, where he found Peter lying against the headboard of the bed, eyes closed.

"El?" the agent mumbled in response to the sound of approaching footsteps.

"It's me, Peter," Neal answered. The weary man's eyes fluttered open, taking a moment before focusing on his younger partner's face. "How are you feeling?"

"Headache… dizzy… nauseous…" he groaned.

"Can I get you anything?" the con man asked. "Water? Food?"

Peter shook his head. "This is your fault, you know."

"I'm really sorry, Peter," Neal responded quickly. "I didn't have any side effects from the full dose. I assumed a half dose wouldn't hurt you." Hearing his explanation out loud made it sound weaker than it seemed when he had planned it.

"I don't feel well enough to be mad at you," the agent confessed.

"You not feeling well makes it hard for me to be mad at you, too," the consultant muttered under his breath.

"You're upset about last night," Peter stated. "You're upset that I found out something about you that you didn't want me to know."

"Yes," admitted Neal, his tone harsh.

"Are you angry with Mozzie too?" the agent continued. "I made him get me the tape."

"I always suspected he kept a copy of it somewhere," the younger man said. He thought for a moment before making eye contact with his handler. "Of all the people he could have shown it to, I'd prefer it was you, rather than someone else."

"Why me?" Peter asked.

"You already know why," the con man answered.

"Tell me why," he insisted.

"I already have!"

"Tell me."

"Because I trust you," Neal finally said. He dropped his eyes. "Please don't investigate this, Peter. The statute of limitations is almost up. I just want to let it go."

"Don't you want justice?" the agent asked. "What about the other people he did this to?"

"I can't tell an entire court what he did to me," the consultant replied. "People don't care if bad things happen to criminals. Besides, it's humiliating."

"Neal…" Peter began.

"I've already dealt with it," Neal interrupted with a bit too much passion.

"When you say dealt with it, you mean…"

_Shoot, Peter caught that_. "Nothing illegal," he replied defensively.

"What did you do, Neal?" Peter asked.

"I asked Moz to find the other inmates' families," the con man answered reluctantly. "He told them what had happened and convinced them to file civil charges instead of criminal ones."

"There's no statute of limitations on civil sexual assault charges in the state of New York," the agent continued.

"Exactly," confirmed Neal. "When that doctor retires, those families are going to sue him for everything he's got."

"How much of his money are you going to get?" Peter inquired.

"None of it," the younger man responded. "I don't want his money. I just want to forget."

"Are you sure that's what you really want?" the agent asked.

"Please just drop it, Peter," Neal replied.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Peter sighed in reply.

"I slept just fine last night, thank you very much," the consultant bragged. "No drugs - one hundred percent natural."

"That's really good," the agent began. He closed his eyes again. "Neal, can you…"

"What do you need?" the con artist replied concernedly.

"Headache pills from the medicine cabinet – and some orange juice from the fridge," the older man instructed. His CI obediently fetched the requested items, which he accepted gladly.

"Thanks," he gurgled between sips.

"Better yet?" Neal questioned after a few minutes.

"Yeah, getting there," Peter answered. "Hand me some pants, will you? Let's go visit the three amigos in lock-up before they get arraigned." He grinned mischievously.

"You do love your job, don't you, Agent Burke?" Neal quipped, throwing some dress pants at his partner. They hit the older man squarely in the chin as he left the room and went back downstairs.

"Where are you going?" Peter called after him.

Neal's reply consisted of only two words. "Leftover muffins!"


	24. Chapter 24

**Tag to 2x14 Payback**

The arraignment was uneventful; or so Peter told Neal, who refused to set foot in the court room.

"It's _boring_," the con man lamented. The agent didn't push the issue, knowing how well the consultant's last court appearance had gone. He instead left Neal to his own devices for the half hour or so the proceedings took, admonishing him to stay close by and not to do anything stupid.

The younger man was sitting on the courthouse steps with a camera in his hands when Peter walked outside. Neal didn't even turn around until he felt the hand on his shoulder.

"Careful, you'll mess up my shot," he warned playfully.

"Photography?" the agent asked.

"Trying out a new medium," Neal confirmed. "Expanding my horizons as an artist, you know."

Peter rolled his eyes. "It's a lot harder to forge photographs, Neal," he replied cautiously.

"That's the idea," the consultant answered, lowering the camera from his eyes and turning to look up at his handler with a sly grin. "I thought you wanted me to turn honest."

"I do, I _do_," the older man insisted. "I just didn't expect you to listen to me."

"How much trouble did you really think I could get into _this close_ to a courthouse?" Neal questioned.

Peter opened his mouth to speak, one eyebrow raised curiously. "Don't answer that," the younger man interjected. "The lady at the rental place was very nice… let me have it overnight," he continued, practically beaming at his own abilities.

"Unbelievable," the agent muttered. "You've found a legal way to swindle." Neal's smile widened until the New York sunshine glinted off of it. The pair set off down the street to where the Taurus was parked before ultimately returning to the office.

Hughes caught their attention when they walked in, summoning them both with the double finger point. Peter immediately glanced at his consultant, who shrugged innocently to indicate he wasn't aware of anything he had done.

"Close the door, please," Hughes asked when they stepped inside his office, "and have a seat." He cleared his throat. "I spoke with George Friedman this morning," he began.

"Lyle's lawyer," Peter replied.

"Yes," his boss confirmed. "He wants a deal. No prison time in exchange for paying the full ten thousand dollar fine and twelve months' probation."

"Ten thousand dollars is nothing to a guy like him," Neal responded quickly.

"I agree, Caffrey, but all we have is the testimony of two witnesses," Hughes continued. "In this audio-visual age, the jury will need more convincing to convict Lyle. I'm afraid this deal is the best option."

"Will the charges on Macmillan and Walters stick?" Peter asked.

"We'll see when it gets to the judge," Hughes answered, dismissing them. The pair had almost left the room when he added, "Oh, and Caffrey? This came for you." He handed Neal an envelope before sitting back at his desk to resume work.

"What's that?" Peter asked his partner, who was holding the envelope up to the fluorescent light to attempt to see through it.

"It's from the doctor's office," the con man answered quietly. The agent could see the anxiety slowly settling over him.

"Okay, it's probably just the results from your lab work," he said calmly, guiding the younger man into his office and into a chair. "We'll open it together."

Neal shook his head and extended the envelope to Peter with a trembling hand. "You do it," he requested.

The older man took the envelope and Neal dropped his arm into his lap. He jumped involuntarily when Peter made the first tear. "Relax, Neal," the agent ordered. He pulled the paper out of the envelope and studied it for a few seconds, before turning it around and holding it in front of the consultant. "See, everything came back normal. They don't need to see you for another year."

Neal gave an audible sigh. "That's good," he breathed, leaning back into the chair to wait as his body came down off the adrenaline surge.

"There's a note here from Dr. Cohen – he's willing to see you again, any time you need a doctor," Peter continued, peeling off the post-it note for Neal to see. "Are you comfortable with that?"

The con artist took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Yeah, he was good," he expressed levelly.

"C'mon, Neal, let's sneak out early," the older man urged, an excited twinkle in his eye. Neal looked up skeptically. Peter continued, "we wrapped up our case, and we aren't going to make much progress on these cold files in the…" he checked his watch, "eighty-six minutes we have left in the workday."

"The world's best FBI agent wants to play hooky?" the con artist asked, mockingly incredulous.

"Well, it's been a long week, and you've been really good, so… consider this a reward," the agent answered.

"I'm getting a little old for bribery, Peter," Neal began condescendingly.

"8th Street Wine Cellar," Peter interrupted. "El's meeting us there."

The consultant's eyes grew large. "There's an Argentinean Malbec I've been meaning to try…" he was incapable of finishing his sentence as Peter plopped his fedora onto his head for him and led him out of the building.

When they arrived at the wine cellar, they found Elizabeth already seated at a table in the corner. She waved them over with an enthusiastic smile. She stood and kissed Peter before embracing Neal warmly. They sat around the table when a waitress came over and passed out menus. Neal held his like a priceless golden tablet, eyes fixed on the listing of reds and whites while the Burkes' quiet laughter went completely undetected.

"Great idea, hon," Peter whispered to his wife. She winked back at him.

"Why don't you choose a bottle for us to share, Neal?" Elizabeth asked loudly, hoping to break his concentration. It failed, and Peter had to nudge him to get his attention.

"Oh, yes, of course," he recovered suavely, pointing out the Malbec on the page for the waitress and looking up at her with that Caffrey grin. She returned the smile and sauntered off with the menus. Peter nudged him again, harder, to express his reluctant amusement at Neal's ability to charm anything with a pulse.

It took all of Neal's might to stifle an _I told you so_ when the waitress returned with a complementary cheese platter and a sampling of bruschette. He made Peter apologize before he allowed him to taste any of the appetizers. The older man looked to his wife, who said nothing, as her mouth was too full to speak, before caving in.

The afternoon quickly descended into evening, and before the trio could notice, they had all had quite a bit to drink. Peter hailed a cab for his wife, insisting he and Neal would take the subway to June's, and he would bring the Taurus back home in a few hours when he sobered up. Elizabeth knew her husband well enough not to question the arrangement, though she was sure Neal knew what was going on as well. She wished them a good night before heading off in the taxi.

Soon the pair found themselves alone again on the street corner. "So, what did you want to talk to me alone about?" Neal asked astutely.

"You still have an angle, even when you're drunk," Peter chortled.

"Well?" the con artist prompted.

"You should know my story," the agent began. "You deserve to know, you've earned it."

"What story, Peter?" the consultant inquired as they walked down the stairs to the subway platform.

"About the first time I – the reason I went to see Dr. Ford."

"Aw, you don't have to, I mean, that's personal," Neal stammered uncharacteristically.

"You're my partner now," the older man replied steadily. "You told me everything. Now it's my turn. No secrets, remember?" Neal simply nodded as they boarded the train and rode uptown in silence.

The silence persisted until they closed the door behind them at Neal's apartment and sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table. The consultant slid his chess board to the side so he could fold his hands on the tabletop. "Keller stopped sending moves when he escaped," he said in reply to Peter's questioning gaze.

The agent grunted in response. "I'm not the best at this feelings stuff," he began after a moment. He cleared his throat. "My second year with the bureau, I – I shot a suspect during a case. He was fleeing, and… I did everything according to protocol. I did everything I was supposed to do, _trained_ to do… all the evidence we had at the time said that he did it, but…" He exhaled loudly. "He was innocent, and I killed him."

"You blamed yourself," Neal echoed empathetically.

"I felt guilty about it for a long time," Peter confirmed. "I couldn't concentrate, couldn't sleep… they say it's hard enough the first time you kill a man, but then finding out he didn't do it – that really messed with me."

"How did you put it behind you?" the younger man asked.

"The FBI set me up with Dr. Ford after they debriefed me, for the mandatory session. I ended up going back three more times to talk about things until it finally started to get easier to accept what I had done." The agent deliberately caught Neal's eye. "The memory never completely goes away, but it gets more distant as you process it in a healthy way. Then you can go on living and making new memories instead."

"That's how I feel now," Neal replied. "Everything bad that's happened to me is slowly fading away."

"That's really good, Neal," Peter praised. "That's good progress."

"It still hurts," the consultant pointed out.

"It will, for a while longer," his handler said. "But it goes away eventually." He checked his watch.

"Do you need to get home to Elizabeth now?" Neal asked.

"Yeah, I think I'm nearly okay to drive. I'll be fine by the time I get back to the car," the agent assured him. "Do you want your sleeping pills tonight?"

"Nah, I was fine last night," the con man answered. "I'll be fine tonight." With a smile, he let his partner out and got ready for bed.

That night, Neal did have a nightmare – but it was different. He dreamed Peter was a unicorn and that the devil was trying to cut his horn off. It became really frightening when he was being chased by the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz and the Thought Police from the novel 1984. Fortunately, Neal stepped in to save the day, winning a lightsaber duel with Satan. There was a big celebration, and all the hobbits from Lord of the Rings made him a big chocolate cake.

If these were the kinds of nightmares he'd have for the rest of his life, well, he could live with that.


End file.
